


The Red Reign

by Spectre4hire



Series: Our Blades Are Sharp [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, Character Death, F/M, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jon Snow becomes a northern lord, Jon Snow knows he is a Targaryen, Minor Catelyn Tully Stark/Ned Stark, Ned Stark Lives, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, POV Arya Stark, POV Colmar Frey, POV Garlan Tyrell, POV Jon Snow, POV Kevan Lannister, POV Multiple, POV Myrcella Baratheon, POV Ned Stark, POV Robb Stark, POV Sam Tarly, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, R Plus L Equals J, Rare Pairings, Several minor pairings that I won't list right now, Some slice of life storytelling, Some things won't be tagged b/c of spoilers, Tags May Change, The North (ASOIAF), The North and the Riverlands joined Stannis, Unreliable Narrator, Warg Sansa Stark, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre4hire/pseuds/Spectre4hire
Summary: House Bolton's guiding ambition was rule the north--As Domeric & Sansa Bolton now do at Winterfell. Meanwhile, Renly marches on the capital and the Lannisters prepare for the inevitable clash while Stannis waits at Harrenhal, determined not to become a footnote to his brother’s usurpation. In the south, Robb Stark & Jon Snow steel themselves for the trials of war.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister and Cersei Lannister, Dacey Mormont/Jon Snow, Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark & Myrcella Baratheon, Theon Greyjoy & Arya Stark
Series: Our Blades Are Sharp [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/562397
Comments: 540
Kudos: 438





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel starts about 2-3 weeks after the epilogue. That should give me enough time to allow the perspectives we saw in Chapter 65 of OBAS to be able to happen. 
> 
> That being said, I’m still terrible with times and travel so can we overlook any discrepancies, please?
> 
> This story is rated M due to graphic violence and other nastiness that is found in the ASOIAF world. So please keep that in mind whenever you open up this story. That warning applies to this very chapter which includes graphic violence and references of violence against children. 
> 
> George R. R. Martin is the master/creator/owner of the ASOIAF and Game of Thrones universe, I own nothing. This is just me killing some time and having some fun. I make no profit on this nor do I seek to.

_No, No._

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t look back.

He had to keep running. 

_That stupid Crow!_ All he had to do was hand over the bastard and they’d leave. 

He hissed when a branched thwacked him in the face. He stumbled, eyes closed from the hit, but he was able to keep his balance. He touched the spot where he was hit and saw blood. 

Amory Lorch looked back and through the thickets of trees and bushes saw no sign that he was being followed. Relieved, he allowed himself a small reprieve to catch his breath. His cut was still stinging when he moved to lean himself against a nearby tree. 

It was supposed to be so simple. The Crow gives him the bastard and they could return to the capital. He had a signed order from the Queen! And still the Crow refused to yield to them their lawful prisoner. 

The Crow was crafty, evading them in the Crownlands and then slipping into the Riverlands. 

_The Crow must have crowed at that,_ Amory smirked. He must have thought he was safe. 

At that point, he had to think quickly. They moved into the Riverlands and were careful to evade northern scouting parties that roamed the borders. They dressed like pilgrims and refugees, no Lannister colors or armor to betray them or their true intentions. 

_It was his fault,_ The Crow brought it on himself. So when they finally cornered him and his recruits, he hadn’t hesitated to give the orders for his men to just kill all of them. It would be quick and easy. They were Lannister men and they were going up against unarmed rabble. 

_And then they showed up!_ He wasn’t sure what drew them to their location, the noise, the fire, but the next thing he knew, coming out of the woods like demons were northern riders, the Stark banners flapping in the breeze.

They were crying: _Stark! Winterfell! The White Wolf!_

He watched, struck still and silent by the burst of panic and chaos that ensued amidst his men. It was when he saw _him_ join the fray did he recover his wits and did the only sensible thing he could do-run. 

_The White Wolf,_ his red banner was flapping in the night behind him and beside him was his monstrous wolf. He rode through the Lannister line with ease and who he didn’t get with his sword, his wolf was quick to pounce on.

The men’s screams and cries as steel and jaws ripped through flesh followed him as he ran away. 

Their deaths served as the distraction he needed to escape. 

This simple mission from the Queen was now turning into a catastrophe. 

If the Starks spared any of the men, Amory knew they would spill everything. They didn’t have his resolve or loyalty to the Lannisters. 

In remembering the Queen, he moved to his hip and realized it was gone. The sliver of worry slithered inside him. His missive from the Queen, signed by her. It wasn’t with him. He must have left it on his satchel with his horse back where he abandoned the useless cowards the Queen had given him. 

_I never should have agreed to this,_ he grumbled. His loyalties were to Lord Tywin, but he was beyond the city preparing for Renly, and she had persuaded him. She had one remaining problem and she wanted him to discreetly remove it. 

She was beautiful and the promises she made had him willing to follow her orders. 

_Who wouldn’t want to fuck a Queen?_ Just the thought of her below him in bed, saying his name made his worry turn to lust. His body reacting to such a potent thought. 

-CRACK-

He looked up at the snapping of a branch. Amory scanned his surroundings, but saw nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. He ignored the cold chill that climbed up his back, and blamed it on the wind, and not fear. 

“I need to keep going,” He told himself, he had to warn the capital that the Starks would know of their failed mission. _It wasn’t his fault._ He knew he’d be blamed for it, but Lord Tywin knew his worth, and how well he served. He’d blame the weak men who’d rather submit to their enemies then die. 

Amory wasn’t sure where he was, but he was certain he ran in the right direction. He moved cautiously in the darkness. His hands pressed forward to make sure he didn’t hit any more branches like the one that nearly took out his eye.

The stinging had ebbed from the cut, and he was grateful. 

_I shouldn’t be too far from the Crownlands border,_ he told himself, _and if I’m spotted I carry no proof of his Lannister loyalty or armor to betray my martial intent. I’ll just say I’m a pilgrim going to the capital._ It was such an easy and believable lie, he laughed at the ingeniousness of it. _Yes, I’ll be fine._

Confidence restored, he kept going. It was slow moving and he cursed himself for forgetting his horse, but he hadn’t had the time. 

Amory had been off of it to personally teach that Crow a lesson when they came. The horse was too far and risky to try to get back to. Not when the Starks came pouring through the darkness, a band of shouting savages flashing steel and screaming curses. 

_It was a terrifying sight._ he shook his head, refusing to think more on it. _I have nothing to fear from them._ He reminded himself.

 _The Starks will just be the latest in a long line of destroyed families that crossed Lord Tywin._ He smiled, satisfied, _I had a part in those houses’ falling and I’ll be there to watch the Starks follow them into the grave._

A wolf’s howl pierced through the night.

Amory frowned. _It’s far,_ he was certain it was. _I’m safe._

The rustling of the bushes in front of him brought him to a sudden halt. 

He looked forward, but didn’t think he saw any sign of man. _No, there wasn’t._ His hand was resting on the hilt of his dagger. _It’s just a stupid squirrel or bird._

His heart’s pounding was so loud he wondered if the animal could hear it. 

He passed it and the bushes stilled. He dispelled a breath. He had been overreacting. He allowed his mind to play a trick on him. 

_It wasn’t fear. It was the song of battle._ He corrected himself. He wasn’t afraid. He was aware. _It was my blood rising and waiting for the thrill to come._ It was an intoxicating feeling and one he had felt many times in his service of Lord Tywin Lannister. 

That sensation that filled his senses that made him feel as if he was unstoppable. The rush that only came in battle. With every kill, only enhancing it, pouring through your body like crackling flames while you soaked it all up, feeling like _the Warrior_ himself. It was delightfully addicting, but difficult to truly replicate.

 _Such a pity,_ he lamented on their failures at being unable to recapture that glorious tingling furor that would course through him. 

_What’s the life of some peasant to a princess?_ He remembered it so well. 

She was so weak and frightened. Whimpering and crying out for a father who not only abandoned her, but was already dead. It was pathetic. He had laughed when she thought she could hide from him, dragging her out of that bed.

 _Such a foolish girl._ The dumb brat screamed and kicked him, but he taught her a lesson for that. 

She was a bug and he was the boot. 

Amory had killed several men to get to her, but those guards were only the kindling to the fire, she was what made it truly burn.

 _In my hands I ended a dynasty,_ he reveled in such power, such control. _The famous line of warriors and dragon riders, kings and queens, and it was my sword that brought them to an end._

The dragon’s reign was over. _That’s power,_ he relished it. 

He wondered if he’d recapture it when he helped slaughter the Starks. The images that followed of the bloodied wolves playing out in front of him made him smirk. _Soon,_ he promised himself. 

A noise cut through his thoughts. He stopped at once. 

He moved his hand to the hilt of his dagger withdrawing the blade from its sheath when suddenly a white blur flashed from the corner of his vision. Amory had just enough time to turn before its teeth sunk into his hand. 

He screamed. The jaws crushed through bone and flesh. It was instant agony. 

The dagger fell out of his grip, his fingers were slacked and slicked with blood. The pain burned up his arm. 

“GET OFF!” He tried to swat the stupid beast with his other hand.

The wolf furiously shook its head, a ripping noise followed, Amory could barely hear it over his own yelling. 

His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to the ground. It wasn’t until he looked up towards his attacker did he realize that his hand was missing. It was in the direwolf’s jaws. 

Such a bizarre sight for him to comprehend. A deranged noise escaped through his lips that was part laugh and part sob. 

He then looked down at what remained of his wrist. It was a ruin of torn flesh, mangled muscle and exposed bone. He sucked in a breath when the wound throbbed. 

The wolf simply stared at him. Its eyes were two drops of blood. Its muzzle was red and in its jaws was Amory’s hand.

He used the wolf’s inaction to push himself backwards. He moved slowly, reeling in pain. It was at its worst when the nub touched something. Then it felt as if his wound had been seared by flame. 

It was a struggle to move. He was nearly out of breath when he finally felt a tree he could lean on. He let out a weary sigh, and his body sagged in relief. 

“Ghost,” A voice cut through the night, “To me.” 

The direwolf towered over him when he was sitting down, looked in the direction of where the voice had come from and then back to him. The wolf’s blood colored eyes lingered on him, and he felt the fear ripple through him at the intensity of the wolf’s stare. 

_It’s unnatural._

It was the flickering of light that caused both man and wolf to turn as a torch was seen moving through the darkness towards them. 

Amory Lorch knew who it was at once- _Lord Stark’s bastard, The White Wolf._

“ _Ser_ Jon Snow,” Amory greeted him through clenched teeth. 

The intruder didn’t regard him at first, he moved to stand beside his wolf to see what it still had in its mouth. “Drop it, Ghost,” He chided his wolf as if it were a hound, but the direwolf obeyed, releasing its grip on Amory’s severed sword hand. 

He felt another wave of delirium go through him. He made a wet, and rasping sound. He tasted blood in his mouth. He had bit the inside of his cheek too hard. 

That was when the bastard turned to him. “Amory Lorch.”

The venom in his voice made him recoil. “I’m a knight,” He reminded the bastard. “It’s Ser Amory Lorch.”

Jon Snow just stared at him. 

“As a knight, I have the privilege to be taken alive and to be ransomed.”

“You are afforded that,” His voice was quiet, but hard. 

“Then I turn myself over to you.” He saw something on the bastard’s face at those words and it unsettled him. 

_Pah,_ he dismissed that second of cowardice, _it was a trick of the light. I have nothing to fear from this bastard._

“Well?” Amory shouldn’t have been surprised that a northern savage didn’t understand the rules of chivalry. “What are you waiting for?” He was so impatient in that heartbeat he tried to move his arm, but instantly regretted it. The wound pulsed pain that lanced up his arm. He bit down on his lip to muffle his cry.

“I’m waiting for the others,” He then turned away from him and towards Ghost and with a slight flick of his head. The direwolf slipped back into the darkness. “You have my oath as a Stark that I will do you no harm.”

The bastard’s face was hard to read in the flickering torchlight. “You say you’re a knight, but you killed a girl, a princess.” There was a tightness in his tone. 

“So what?” Amory growled, not knowing what that dead Targaryen had to do with anything, “If she grew up she would’ve let any lord with a bit of land or coin claim her cunt to try to strike against my liege lord.” He was holding his bleeding stump to his chest. “So I killed her first!” 

That seemed to upset him. “So you did,” the bastard took a step closer to him and Amory instinctively moved backwards, but all he felt was the hard bark digging into his back and neck. 

“It’s better to kill them in the cradle,” he defended, “I stopped a war!”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” His free hand was clenched at his side. 

“I ended a dynasty, _bastard,_ ” He tried to adjust his sitting position to look straighter and taller, but once his stump touched the ground, the pain returned, searing up his arm and into his chest. He closed his mouth to muffle the howl that strangled his throat. He felt tears in his eyes. Amory pressed on, he wouldn’t cower to some bastard. 

“I was there when Lord Tywin ended the Tarbecks. I tossed the tiny lord down a well,” He laughed, remembering the loud splash the three yeard old boy made when he hit the water. 

“I was there when he drowned the Reynes in their own castle. I could hear their cries and sobs.” He sneered, “And I was there in the Red Keep to end the Targaryens.” He slowly lifted his other arm, ignoring the pain and pointed a bloody finger at Jon, “And Lord Tywin will add the Starks to his list when he wins this war!”

The noisy approach alerted them they were not alone and Amory could not hide his relief, but what he saw wasn’t more Stark men to put him in shackles and to escort him to the nearest castle so he could be properly attended to as a knight of his standing deserved. No, it was just a woman dressed in armor. 

“I’ve surrendered,” He told her. “I’m a knight and I surrendered.”

The woman looked at him, but her face betrayed nothing, “Is it true?”

“It is.”

She nodded, but she didn’t seem to care. “I found this,” She held out a rolled up piece of parchment.

Amory felt his heart sink, recognizing it at once. It was the Queen’s orders to him.

The bastard took it and read it in the torchlight. “It looks like the Lannisters have broken the truce.” He handed it back to her. “The others?” 

They were talking as if he wasn’t there in front of them. _I’m a wounded knight,_ he was afforded several rights which they were ignoring. 

_Stupid savages._

“Some of the Watch recruits were killed before we could intervene,” her eyes moved towards him, but he would not deflate at her stare. “We’ll escort what’s left of the recruits to Harrenhal,” She informed him. “I already sent a rider ahead to inform your brother of the Lannisters’ breaking the truce.” 

“Good,” The bastard said, “King Stannis will want to know and plan our reprisal.”

“What about me?” Amory hissed to get their attention. “I need to see a maester!” His last words made him light-headed, and he could feel some of his strength begin to drain.

“Princess Rhaenys had a brother.”

The woman reached out her hand to take the bastard’s free one. 

He turned away from Amory to her. A silent exchange seemed to pass between them before he gave her a slight nod that looked to be of gratitude. Snow then turned back to him. 

“Aegon?” He remembered the babe. He was not sure what that dead Targaryen had anything to do with him seeing a maester. However, it seemed to bother Snow so Amory pushed the only blade he could into the bastard. _He’s already swore he would not harm me._

“He got his head smashed in.” 

Something feral flickered over Jon Snow’s face.

Amory felt a cold shiver go through him that made him shudder. “I’m your prisoner,” He said aloud to remind the bastard that his rights still needed to be observed. 

The woman snapped her fingers. “What about _Tar_ stark?” 

A ghost of a smile came to the bastard’s expression at her suggestion.

Amory could only blink at them. He was having difficulty concentrating on them. He was dizzy, and his head felt so heavy. _What are they talking about?_ He didn’t understand. _When are these others showing up? I need to see a maester._

“A good name for our future house,” He agreed mildly, “save for you know,” He reminded her, and she looked at him with a look of surprise that didn’t look sincere. It seemed like some joke between them, but then their mirth slipped away from their faces. 

She spoke softly, but the words did not carry to Amory. They spoke in hushed whispers, but it was not a long conversation. 

He could hear the bastard let out a breath. 

_Are my wits bleeding out of me too?_

“You spoke of Aegon and his murder. I killed the one responsible.” He took another step closer towards him. The woman followed, but remained a step or two behind him. 

“Why should you care? You’re a Stark!” He kept his grip on his arm loose to not further antagonize the wound. “Your father fought against the dragons.” 

“I am a Stark,” He crouched down in front of him. He held the torchlight, the orange glow was put between them. The woman now stood behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, and her eyes were on the bastard. It was a soft gaze. “But my father wasn’t.” 

“W-what?” He stared back. The bastard’s eyes were so dark they nearly looked black, but in the flickering torchlight they almost _could’ve_ looked…

“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

Amory gaped at him. _Rhaegar’s son,_ he didn’t want to believe it, he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. This is madness. 

_This is a ruse. A jape that he can tell his friends when they take me to a castle to see a maester._

_It’s impossible._ He told himself.

 _Rhaegar’s children are dead._ They were draped in Lannister red and gold and presented to the new King. _I was there. I did my duty for the crown._

“It was my uncle who raised me,” The bastard’s voice was icy. “He taught me the ways of the First Men, at how to look a man in the eye and to hear their last words before you carry out the sentence.”

“I surrendered to you,” He hissed. “You’re a knight and I surrendered!”

“I accepted it,” He said flatly. He turned back to the woman. She had been standing behind him a silent spectator, unsurprised at his revelations. “We should leave before more come.”

The question was on Amory’s lips but it was answered in the darkness by a series of growls that made him quiver as if he was staving off an icy breeze. Looking forward he saw pairs of eyes blinking out of the darkness. They were all looking back at him.

One set was different. It was the terrifying red eyes of the bastard’s direwolf. It then stepped out. 

Then the others slowly began to emerge behind to reveal themselves. They were wolves. He counted two, three, no four coming out of the woods, sniffing the air, and baring their teeth. They did not advance far. Their only hesitation was in the large white direwolf. They cowered to it, who had moved to join its master.

Amory felt the fear in his chest, cold talons clutching at his heart. “You gave me your word!” 

“I told you no harm would come from _me_. And _I_ will do you no harm.” He gestured with the torchlight where the wolves were waiting. Eyes flickering back between the bastard’s direwolf and Amory himself. “However, I can not speak for them.” 

Silently seething at this savage’s betrayal, Amory noticed how close the bastard was to him. _I’ll send this dragonspawn into the grave,_ he thought triumphantly, _Or_ _I’ll hold him for ransom to make sure this bitch and his wolf would honor my rights as a knight._ He nearly smiled and then he reached out to grab him, but his fingers found only air. It was then he saw the swipe of the white direwolf’s large paw come towards him, slashing forward to protect its master. 

He cried out when its sharp claws raked across him. The pain bloomed and burned in his belly. 

Amory then felt something warm and wet fall onto his lap. He slowly lowered his head to look and saw to his horror, his intestines were beginning to slowly slip out of him like pale eels, twitching on his legs with blood washing over them. He let out a mangled shout in a mixture of agony and disbelief.

He fumbled at grabbing them to try to put them back in, but with one hand missing it was too challenging. The slimy feeling of them on his remaining fingers made him lurch.

 _I’m holding my own guts,_ a detached voice observed inside him. He trembled. 

Amory looked up, feeling the weight- damp and hot begin to increase on his lap. He shook his head, trying to stave off the dizziness that was seeping through his senses. 

“My sister’s name was Rhaenys Targaryen. You murdered her.” The bastard looked at him behind cold grey eyes. His other hand was in the snowy white fur of his direwolf. “The last face you’ll see is that of her brother’s.” He moved away, the torch in hand with his direwolf beside him. 

Amory whimpered. 

In the dark, he could see the wolves’ outlines stalking forward, snarling. Their breath was hot against his cheek and it smelled of rotting flesh. He feebly tried to swat one away, but it easily avoided him, and then when they completely surrounded him, they struck.

In the end, it was only agony Amory Lorch felt before the black nothingness _finally_ took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about Amory being attacked by Ghost and what follows is a creative liberty, drama and gore over accuracy. So please don’t point it out, I know. 
> 
> Moving forward, the chapters will have multiple perspectives. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	2. Two

**Myrcella:**

“Princess!”

“Princess!” 

She smiled at the throngs of people who were gathering around her. She stood above them, safely out of the way, but where they could still see her. Myrcella waved at them, watching as her guard distributed the food she purchased from the merchants with her allowance. She used the _Right of Purveyance_ to buy it, allowing her the privilege to acquire it below market price. A price that had steadily ascended these past few weeks. 

It did not please the merchants, but they begrudgingly respected it. 

Myrcella was paying them when no one else could afford it. _Coin was coin._

Now, she stood as the denizens of the capital came forward to collect their allotment of foodstuff. It was not much, and she regretted that she could not give them more, but she hoped it would ease their starving bellies. 

The siege was slowly strangling the city with all of the food from the Reach being withheld. 

It was under the orders of Uncle Renly. 

_He’s not your Uncle,_ Myrcella bit her lip, but recovered quickly, to smile once more so that none of the smallfolk would have noticed. The voice sounded like Lord Stark. 

She felt something cold touch her spine, but she could show none of her pain or discomfort. _A princess must always look poised, pretty, and be polite._

 _You’re not a Princess,_ Lord Stark’s voice was cold and flat in her ears. 

Myrcella wiped at her eye. She would say it was dirt that had gotten in it, and nothing else. 

“Princess?” 

She turned to see Ser Arys had moved to stand beside her. “Are you well?”

“I think it is the heat,” She lied. 

Arys was not fooled. “We should head back to the Red Keep, Princess,” He looked out as the lines of people were beginning to lessen. “You’ve done a good thing and it is nearly done.”

Myrcella wanted to balk at abandoning her people before the food distribution was over, but she couldn’t. Her knight was right and she gave him a weary nod. She couldn’t be here anymore. Her smile felt so brittle on her lips, and her heart ached. She just couldn’t stand any longer in front of all these people. 

_My mask is set to shatter._

“Princess,” Ser Arys inclined his head, he had given the orders. Some of her guard would remain to finish while the rest would escort her back to the Red Keep. 

She mutely nodded and followed the Lannister men in front of her. The crowds saw her go, exclaiming their thanks and love as she left. She tried to keep smiling and waving, feeling their voices helped to boost her sagging spirit. Myrcella scanned the gathered smallfolk who were dispersing to let her pass. She wanted to give as many as she could a look or a smile or a wave. 

_I must show them my gratitude._ She had just waved to a small girl no older than eight, a crust of bread in her mouth, it was enough to make her smile. Her eyes then found a man. He was old, but he had a familiar face... 

“BASTARD!” A loud voice rang out in the crowd. 

Myrcella stiffened at the harshness and the suddenness of the shout. The curse was as sharp as a knife and it felt as if it was plunged into her chest. 

There were ripples of laughter, and then others began to throw out the word.

_“Bastard!”_

_“Bastard!”_

_“Bastard!”_ They jeered.

Her knight moved to stand beside her, shielding her from view from the crowd that was beginning to grow hostile.

 _The smallfolk will praise you with one side of their mouth and curse you with the other._ Uncle Tyrion had told her that once. He was right. 

Myrcella pressed forward, not wanting that word or their intent behind it to leave their mark upon her even while they volleyed the curse towards her like a rain of arrows. 

She still was not strong enough to keep her head held high. It began to droop and her smile slipped away. She did not want to see their mean eyes and sneers. 

It was not until she had been escorted all the way back to the Red Keep and into her chambers. Where she then dismissed her faithful knight. That was when she finally showed her tears. She fell onto her bed, clutched her pillow and wept. 

* * *

The whispers of it first came in the week after the truce was declared between her family and Robb’s.

They were repugnant and she had dismissed them quickly, but they did not disappear. It lingered in the back of her mind, gnawing at her in the dark silence of the night where she lay in bed, unable to sleep. 

She wanted to deny it, but its roots were growing and she could not pull them all up. Myrcella was not her brother. Joffrey had dismissed them so easily, but she couldn’t.

 _I’m not a fool,_ she had told herself. She wasn’t blessed with Joffrey’s ignorance or stupidity. 

The more the words stayed with her the more they made sense. She could feel the cold tendrils tightening around her heart.

 _They made too much sense._ Her belly had roiled at the disgustingness of it. She had slipped out of her bed and emptied her stomach into her chamber pot with all the elegance of a drunken sailor. 

Blinking tears and tasting bile, she lounged on the floor by the chamber pot, bits of vomit already on her chin and her nightshift. There it turned in her mind and everything she thought hadn’t made sense now had become abundantly clear once the truth of her parentage was put into place. 

The thought of her true parents made her purge her stomach a second time. Her body convulsed, and she whimpered, it felt as if her insides were being wrung out. Her hands were shaking around the chamberpot to try to keep her grip. She sagged in relief when she thought it was over, tears trickled down her cheeks. Her lips and chin sticky with bile, but she did nothing to wipe them away. 

This was why Stannis refused to serve Joffrey.

This was why Lord Stark tried to take Joffrey’s crown. It was not out of ambition, but because her brother wasn’t the lawful heir. 

This was why the Starks refused to betroth her to Robb.

Then her mind cruelly brought back Robb’s reaction to her that day in the Lannister camp. _How he looked at her,_ she had blamed Joffrey, _but it was me that elicited that look. He saw me and was disgusted._

More tears streamed down her cheeks and she felt her shoulders shudder from the sob that stormed through her. 

_You’re not a Princess,_ Lord Stark’s voice resounded inside her. _My son will marry no bastard._

Her servants found her in that wretched state the next morning and she had blamed a stomach ailment. 

They were silent in their understanding and sympathy, but she could not help but look at their faces, their expressions and think do they believe it too? _The truth of who I am?_

 _You’re not serving a Princess,_ she wanted to tell them, _You’re serving a bastard._

* * *

**Colmar:**

“Colmar?”

“Yes, my lord?” He immediately straightened up at being addressed. 

“How do you find the weather?”

“It’s cold, my lord,” Colmar answered honestly. 

They had made camp that evening about a day’s ride from Castle Cerwyn.

Lord Domeric’s tent was spacious, but eerie. 

The canvas resembled exposed muscle in its appearance. It was so strikingly similar he needed to remind himself that the tent was made of cloth. A red curtain was drawn to the right of them to separate the Lord and Lady’s public space and to allow them some privacy. Stitched into the curtain were two flayed men in dark pink resembling sentinels to guard the way. 

Two small tables were off to the side flanked by braziers and on each were piles of parchment and maps, letters and notes, that belonged to the future Lord and Lady of the Dreadfort. 

“Cold?” Lord Domeric’s dark eyes hid his thoughts. 

He was wearing a pale red tunic with an onyx brooch in the shape of a horse head, its eyes made from amber and dark trousers. The heir to the Dreadfort was standing by one of the braziers. There were a few cushioned seats available but he was not inclined to use them. Resting on one of the chairs was Lord Domeric’s prized weirwood harp. 

“It is,” Colmar didn’t mean to insult his northern hosts. He spent most of his nights shivering in his bedroll. His teeth chattered while he watched his breath pass between his lips. 

It was one thing to be told or warned about the cold, but quite another to be in it, to breathe in it. A cold that seemed to seep through his skin and into his bones. _It was terrible._

“It’s only Autumn, Colmar,” His tone finally conveyed a tinge of amusement.

Nearly a year in his service, and Colmar could never really sense Lord Domeric’s mood. 

“The lad may faint at the first drop of snow, my lord,” Captain Rylen observed. 

Bitter Robard chuckled where he stood beside the Captain. “He may indeed.” 

“Do not worry, Colmar. Winterfell will keep you warm,” Domeric assured him once the mirth of his men subsided. “It is a great castle and anyone who dwells in it should be honored.”

“I am, my lord,” He said quickly so they wouldn’t think otherwise.

“Good,” That one word carried a lilt that he could not quite place. He turned his dark gaze elsewhere,and Colmar was relieved. “Rylen, have you assembled the men to escort Qyburn to the Dreadfort?”

“I have, my lord,” Rylen answered, “And Colmar brought what you required to their attention. It’ll be taken with them to your family’s castle.”

 _Vargo’s goat helm and his coined necklace,_ he remembered, they were among the _trophies_ he had collected and stored for Lord Domeric. It was not just Qyburn or those going to the Dreadfort, Uthor’s remains would be too. The old Dreadfort maester died less than a fortnight after the wedding. He would be interred where the loyal servants of the Bolton family were put to rest. 

_All except his hands,_ He felt the lingering cold falling on his neck like raindrops. The arms had been severed from Uthor’s body and tended to and stored separately. 

_They use the hands,_ Rylen had stated bluntly, unbothered when he had asked. Colmar had tried to look that too, but he couldn’t, looking and feeling nauseous. When he learned that the bones of Bolton enemies and servants were put to use in the Dreadfort. It was unnerving. 

_I was promised to the Faith,_ he mused, _but given to the Boltons._

He knew the seven faces, the prayers, the rites, but one was not like the others. One was not given the same honors, the same attention, one was avoided. It was there, but at the same time it wasn’t. 

_The Stranger,_ the one you were not supposed to pray to. It represented death and the unknown.

_It leads the dead to the other world..._

That brought him back to those nights in the Riverlands where those mummers were on crosses, gelded, and mutilated, moaning in agony, bleeding and dying slowly. 

The Stranger was supposedly faceless but sometimes in his nightmares it had a face and it was a _Bolton._

“My lady wife,” Lord Domeric’s words brought Colmar out of his thoughts to see the arrival of the Lady Sansa, who seemed the only one capable of effortlessly eliciting an instant reaction out of her husband.

His posture as well as Captain Rylen and Robard’s went from relaxed to formal in a blink at her entrance.

Lady Sansa Bolton has been wearing her husband’s colors consistently since their wedding. She was in a dark pink dress with a red traveling cloak, that was speckled with crimson to resemble blood drops. It was fur trimmed. The cloak was clasped by grey direwolves, the only visible representation of her father’s house. 

He kissed her cheek when she moved to stand beside him, “Husband,” she greeted him with a warm smile before she turned to face them. “And my husband’s faithful men.”

“My lady,” The three men intoned respectfully. 

Colmar’s eyes moved to the Lady Sansa’s main attendant, her friend, the Lady Jeyne Poole. She hovered near the entrance, looking pretty in her light blue dress. She must have sensed his eyes since she turned to him and offered him a shy smile before ducking her head.

He would not deny the effect her gaze had on him, but he could show nothing in the presence of Lord Domeric and Lady Sansa. Colmar snuck a glance to see they were thankfully not looking his way.

Lady Sansa was speaking with Bitter and Rylen, both men at ease in her presence, while Lord Domeric stood beside her. His men were clearly charmed by Lady Bolton, but Colmar could not blame them, she was kind and sincere and spoke well to all of the servants and guards. It made him believe that no one in the Bolton retinue had an ill thing to think or say about their future Lady of the Dreadfort. 

“Colmar?”

“Yes?” 

“You are dismissed for the evening.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Colmar bowed, but before he could leave Lady Sansa stopped him. 

“Colmar, would you be so kind as to escort Jeyne to her tent?”

“Yes, my lady,” Colmar answered dutifully, hoping not to show any obvious interest at his order. 

He then offered the Lady Jeyne Poole his arm which she took with a demure dip of her head and they slipped out of the tent to be greeted by the cold, crisp northern air. They walked in silence, the only noise that of the camp bustling around them. He feared with her so close that she could hear the sound of his thundering heartbeat. 

“My lady?” He licked his lips, unable to oblige the quiet anymore. “Are you happy to be returning north?”

“I am,” She glanced at him, “the south was,” she paused, and her face betrayed her anguish, but she turned away as to not burden him further. “It was not what it was supposed to be.”

“I am sorry to hear that, my lady,” Colmar knew little of the trials she faced during her trip to the capital. Sadly, he was not close enough to know what things could cause her such sorrow. It hurt to see her pretty face crumple. “The north is made better with your presence, my lady.”

“You are kind.”

Her words may have sounded dull, but he saw how her eyes took the compliment and it made his heart soar. He felt the smile on his lips at being the cause of it. “Here you are, my lady.” 

The walk had been all too brief. He stopped at an appropriate distance from her tent flap. 

“Thank you, Colmar,” She slipped her hand from his arm. 

“My lady,” He bowed his head to her, and watched her go inside her small tent, but he was certain she looked back before the canvas slid closed behind her. 

He stood there for a long moment, before he finally turned and left.

When he had been told that he was to be given a Stark bride, he had thanked the Seven for such a blessing. He had once thought his life would be tied to them. Colmar had been given to the Faith, but before he could leave, Father had changed his mind. Elmar had displeased him and he was sent instead.

He had been further blessed when his father had chosen him as the recipient for the potential Stark betrothal. _I’m marrying into one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms._

The truth _now_ was he felt little excitement once he met her. 

Arya Stark was scrawny, dirty, and long faced. She had a quick temper and seemed more willing to frown or glare then to smile. _The only thing attractive about her was her name._

He tried to be polite to her, but she was wild and loathsome towards him. _Sadly, I’m marrying the one Stark that’s the most similar to their direwolf sigil._

 _Am I marrying a woman or a beast?_ He was disappointed. 

_This is my wife?_ When he thought of a wife he did not think of Arya Stark nor her traits. 

He wanted someone who was pretty, kind, supportive, loyal. _I want a gentle maiden and I got an untamed wolf._

 _She carries a sword,_ He had gaped when he saw her wearing it. _A woman with a sword?_ It did not sit well with him. The sword hung loose on her but it nearly became the least upsetting part of her attire which included trousers, a boy’s tunic, and boots all of which were covered with layers of dirt and sweat. 

_If I’m marrying a woman who dresses and acts like a man then what does that make me?_ He did not like that thought or implication. He was embarrassed at the sort of mischief she frequently got herself into from the limited time he saw her during his stay in Riverrun. 

_She also despises me,_ Colmar could sense it from a distance well before speaking to her. _She does not see me as a husband, but an obstacle that she wishes to remove._ It was a disquieting revelation, but an offensive one, _I should be the one grieved. I smile and she glares. I talk and she mutters. If anyone has the right to protest this match it should be me._

He knew better never to voice such things. Colmar understood the importance of this potential betrothal and the repercussions he could face from his father and family if he disappointed them. It didn’t matter how he felt, he wasn’t a fool. _To marry into House Stark was an honor that I cannot dismiss._

He looked back and could barely see her tent, but it was there. 

Colmar was left with the one question that was coming to him more frequently since his time around her had only increased on the road. 

_Why couldn’t Arya Stark be more like Jeyne Poole?_

* * *

The hall of Castle Cerwyn was filled with Bolton and Stark men. 

It was smaller than the Twins, but it felt larger to him since it wasn’t filled to the brim with his kin. It was held up by eight pillars in two rows of four and within the stone were axe engravings to represent Cerwyn’s family standard. 

There were lines of wooden tables with benches, but even with the extra guests not all of the tables were filled, some remained empty. 

That was where Colmar went.

Servants bustled quietly but diligently through the hall making their rounds and filling up pitchers and tankards or clearing plates and bowls. They tended to the several small fireplaces as well as the braziers that were strategically placed throughout the room. All of them were dressed for the cold weather and were wearing the Cerwyn livery on their tunics or dresses. 

There was a small stone platform where the Lord sat and his guests who were given the honor to dine at their table. The table was currently empty, Lord Medgar Cerwyn had died on the Green Fork. 

Black banners were hung throughout the castle, but were draped prominently in the castle’s great hall. His son and new lord of Cerwyn, Cley was in the Vale with Lord Stark. So the duties of the castle fell on Jonelle Bolton nee Cerwyn, Lord Bolton’s wife and Lord Domeric’s good mother. She had traveled with their party and was absent from the hall to speak with some of the servants and guards to ensure everything was going smoothly in hosting Lord and Lady Bolton’s retinue. 

The hall was warm which Cley was thankful for since the ride had been so cold. He picked the nearest empty table by a burning brazier. The warmth was instant and for a few seconds he just simply basked in it. He had been in the castle for some time, but this cold seemed to leak through the walls constantly shadowing him like a persistent hound. 

He had not sat down for more than a minute before a servant delivered his food and poured him a tankard of ale. She was old and surly, with a prominent mole on her chin. As soon as the plate was on the table and his tankard was filled, she moved off to the next table.

Comfortable and warm for the first time today, he dug into his food. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

 _Damn._ He lowered his fork before he answered. “No.” _Yes._

He tried not to sigh at the intrusion. Out of all his kin who had come north with him and there were many, the one he didn’t want to see was the one now sitting across from him, Little Walder. 

Even though they were similar in age, Colmar was actually his Uncle. Little Walder’s father, Merrett was Colmar’s half brother through their father. 

Colmar shouldn’t have been surprised that he had been picked to go to Winterfell. Walder’s sisters, his nieces, Walda and Marissa were part of Lady Sansa’s retinue. Walda had even seen herself betrothed before she went north to Lord Umber’s son and heir, Smalljon. She was now traveling to Winterfell to learn more about running a household and living in the north under the Lady Sansa’s guidance and tutelage. 

He had heard Marissa was being discussed as a potential bride for Jojen Reed. The Lady Sansa wanted to stem the enmity between Frey and the crannogmen. He didn’t think she had much of a chance at accomplishing that, but then again he never thought Lord Tully would marry one of his kin, and Sansa’s Uncle was now betrothed to Colmar’s half sister, Roslin. 

Fair Walda had even gotten herself married, but hers was not a prestigious match. She was supposed to go north with Lady Sansa, but Walda was then caught in a compromising position with a knight in Lord Mallister’s household retinue. She was quickly and quietly married off to said knight and left behind.

He was happy that his sisters Arwyn and Shirei were traveling north to continue to attend the Lady Sansa. He was curious what sort of match his older sister would find in the north. Colmar doubted any of them would bring Arwyn happiness, because he suspected no husband could actually please his sister. Not wanting to dwell on his sister or her peculiar tastes, he sadly returned his attention to the recently arrived Walder. 

“I was tending to Lord Domeric.” 

Colmar had just finished with those duties when he went to the hall to eat. When he first got the role to serve as Lord Domeric’s squire his family constantly pestered him with questions. They were greedy for stories that involved any of the darker deeds that made up the Boltons’ infamy.

They were disappointed when Colmar informed them that no, Lord Domeric didn’t flay Lannister soldiers or toss them on pikes. That he didn’t drink their blood or play his harp while they were screaming in agony.

They sought him out again after dealing with the Bloody Mummers. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it. He didn’t even want to think about it. Long after it had ended, the nightmares remained showing a stoic Lord Domeric gelding and crucifying the Mummers. 

He pushed those thoughts away, but it was a difficult task because out of all his kin, Little Walder was the one to express the most disappointment of not having been there to see those men get crucified. The way his face would take in such grisly tales had only sharpened Colmar’s unease at being in his nephew’s presence. 

Little Walder was anything but little. His nephew was only about a year younger than Colmar but was already larger and taller than him. He had a red face and dark eyes. Walder always wore doublets or tunics or coats that were quartered in his personal coat of arms with the grey towers of House Frey, the brindled boar of House Crakehall, and the plowman of House Darry. 

“I heard he may crucify any wildlings he catches.”

Colmar lost his appetite at his nephew’s suggestion and looked up from his plate. “Lord Domeric would not do something that foolish.” 

“Foolish?” Walder sneered, “The only foolish ones are the wildlings that get caught south of the Wall. I heard some of the Bolton men talk about them. They say few hate the wildlings more than Lord Domeric.”

 _That was true,_ he quietly admitted, but he would not say it aloud. Walder didn’t shy away from his interest at the thought of witnessing a crucifixion. Colmar’s stomach turned instead. 

He hoped a drink would help, but the northerners’ ale was bitter and strong. Colmar ended up only taking a small sip, disliking the taste, but he was disliking this conversation even more. 

So he was pleased when Walder finally dropped it, but that feeling quickly soured when he noticed that Little Walder’s eyes were following the Lady Jeyne Poole who had made her way into the hall. 

She was pretty in what some would call a mute color, but to Colmar, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She noticed him and tipped her head and a smile followed before she took a seat at a table where Arwyn and Shirei were already sitting with Walda and Marissa. 

“I told my sisters to _impress_ on her that _I_ need a wife.”

Walder’s greasy tone pulled Colmar away from his distant admiration of the Lady Jeyne Poole. “What?” He tried to hide his dismay and disgust at the idea of the fair Jeyne Poole marrying his mean young nephew.

“Jeyne,” He tilted his head in her direction, not even referring to her respectfully. “She looks pretty when she’s not standing beside Sansa,” His eyes betraying his lusts. 

Colmar quickly looked around Cerwyn’s hall hoping no would heard such crude words being bandied about Lady Sansa Bolton. Before he could chastise him and hopefully get him to be quiet, Walder went on, oblivious or uncaring of how he sounded. 

“She’s even prettier sitting next to my sister, Fat Walda,” He snickered, “Mayhaps, I’ll ask my dear sow of a sister to sit next to her more often.” 

_Fat Walda,_ a cruel name given to a kind woman. Colmar had always tried not to say it when referring to his niece even when it led to confusion due to all the other Waldas that resided in the Twins. The Lady Sansa had insured that name was no longer used after she took Walda and the other Freys in as part of the agreement between Houses Frey and Stark. 

“She should be happy, I think,” Walder went on, “A Poole isn’t much of a noble house,” He sniffed, “While I on the other hand have much nobler blood flowing in my veins,” He tapped his chest proudly, where his coat of arms was emblazoned to prove his point. 

_And no land or wealth to speak of,_ Colmar wanted to say, but bit his tongue. No easy feat since his annoyance towards him was rising with every word or look he gave towards the Lady Jeyne Poole. 

_She deserves much better than you_. 

“Colmar?” 

He looked up from their table to see Captain Rylen. “Yes, Captain?” He was already rising from his seat.

“Lord Domeric has requested your presence.”

Colmar did not need to be told twice. It was not wise to keep him waiting. 

* * *

“Lord Domeric?” Colmar found the heir to the Dreadfort in one of the guest chambers within the castle, alone. He was only able to take a quick glance around the room to see it remained exceptionally tidy and that the trunks that had been put in front of the large bed hadn’t looked to be opened. 

“Colmar,” He was standing behind a desk, but didn’t look up, “I need you to see to the horses. I need to ride to Winterfell.”

“Tonight?” Colmar’s surprise overwhelmed his cautiousness. It was time for supper and Winterfell was half a day’s ride from Castle Cerwyn.

“Yes,” Lord Domeric’s tone had gone dangerously soft. “Sansa and I are riding to the castle tonight.”

“Very well,” Colmar was thankful no further reprimand seemed to be coming from his earlier disrespect. “I should have our horses ready in a few minutes.”

“You are not coming. It will just be my wife and myself.” Lord Domeric corrected, “So prepare only the two mounts.”

This time Colmar was able to stop himself from further mistakes. He knew what needed to be said or not said when given such orders. “I will see to it now, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Lord Domeric’s dark eyes were on a piece of parchment on the desk. “You will also make the necessary excuses for our absences if it is noticed. You will not say that we left the castle.” He instructed, “In the morning our party will simply be told that we could not wait and we left earlier in the morning then planned.”

“I understand,” Colmar wasn’t foolish to consider such a thing even before the warning. 

“Good,” He finally looked up, but nothing could be gleaned from his expression or gaze. “My wife has given similar instructions to Jeyne. Sansa has asked that you personally escort her in the retinue tomorrow when the rest of our belongings travel to Winterfell.”

Colmar hid his smile and showed no objection. “I will oversee them and her, my lord.” That had been one of his responsibilities during the trek north to ensure the luggage train of Lord Domeric and his wife’s trunks remained organized and were traveling smoothly. 

“Thank you,” Lord Domeric picked up the parchment he had been reading and walked the few steps it took to get to the fireplace. He then promptly crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. “That will be all.” His eyes never left the burning parchment. 

“My lord,” Colmar dipped his head and slipped out of the chambers to follow through with his orders. He couldn’t help but wonder what would cause Lord Domeric and his wife to insist on riding to Winterfell tonight.

 _No,_ he stopped himself before his interest grew any further. _It is not my place._

Colmar knew that it was never wise to pry into delicate matters that involved the Boltons.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support.

**Sansa:**

The ride to Winterfell did not improve her mood. 

Despite the hour and the distance upon hearing the news from Winterfell, she felt like she had no other choice, but to press on and return to her childhood home as quickly as she could. She wanted to make good time, but Domeric would not do it to the detriment of their mounts, so he set the pace and she followed, trusting his knowledge. 

When she told her husband of her decision he offered no objections and gave the orders for their horses to be made ready for a swift departure. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. If the reason for their ride was not so despondent, she may have enjoyed it more. 

They had been joined further up the road by a handful of Bolton men who had been waiting for them. They had scouted ahead and would serve as their escort. Among them was the rider from Winterfell who had come to the castle and brought with him a letter that could not be trusted to a raven. 

That letter was the cause of her current sorrow. It was the reason she found herself riding to Winterfell at such an hour. Despite what it brought her, she still kept it close. 

It was short and painful. _Bran was gone._

There was more to the message, but Maester Luwin’s tidy scrawl slipped her attention since her heart was reeling at those three words. 

It was not news she could sleep on at Castle Cerwyn. It was not something she wanted to think about in some guest chamber or at Cerwyn’s great hall. No, she didn’t want to speculate or worry, she wanted answers. She wanted an explanation of how and why her younger brother was missing.

She would not get that waiting at Castle Cerwyn. They were at Winterfell so they rode. 

Sansa had been looking forward to seeing Bran again. She had written him several letters, and she still had his sweet letter that he wrote congratulating her on her marriage to Domeric. He was so kind and thoughtful in his words, and in reading it, she felt like she had her old little brother back.

A brother she had not seen since leaving Winterfell for the capital all those months ago. She could not forget the last time she laid eyes on him. Sansa had tears then, seeing him look so small in his bed. He was unconscious. It hadn’t been right that her energetic brother was now so still. Fear and doubt had clung to her heart that he may never wake again.

They reached Winterfell before morning. Luwin and Rodrik were waiting for them. Lady was sniffing intently the air and area around them, sensing her littermate, but unable to see or be with him. Sansa felt her direwolf’s sadness through their bond by Summer’s absence and the distraught it brought even when his scent was still strong. 

Domeric had quickly gotten off his mount and moved to assist her. She was grateful for it. She did not need the help, but she did need him. He held her a few heartbeats longer for comfort before they moved together to speak with Winterfell’s maester and castellan.

Maester Luwin had always seemed so different to Sansa than anyone else at Winterfell. Growing up with him as her teacher, he was so smart, so patient, so wise, and he seemed nearly above them because of everything he knew. She thought him incapable of mistakes or errors, seeing him make medicines or correcting her numbers or tending to the ravens or helping Father with a dispute. 

Now, looking at him he didn’t seem like that at all. The all knowing and infallible teacher, healer, counselor that she had built up in her head. No, now he was just an old man in grey robes. 

“Lady Sansa,” Luwin’s mouth was pursed in worry. He dipped his head to her. 

“Maester Luwin,” She returned the greeting wishing they were seeing each other under better circumstances.

Ser Rodrik’s greeting was a simple, and soft, “Lady Sansa,” with a bowed head. 

Domeric offered them the expected words, but kept his attention on her. Her hand was in his and she felt the slight pressure of reassurance and she returned it in thanks. 

“We should go inside and discuss the matter,” Luwin suggested. 

“I think that would be best,” Sansa had had enough of the late night wind and her time in the saddle had made her tired and sore. 

_Winterfell was different._

She hated having to leave and travel with the Queen to the capital. She had longed to return to it, but now as she walked the familiar corridors, it did not feel like it once was to her. 

The wistfulness that had settled in her chest upon seeing Winterfell had begun to ebb away. 

_I left Winterfell Sansa Stark, but I return as Sansa Bolton._

Luwin and Rodrik offered no conversation as they walked nor did Domeric. He seemed content to walk silently beside her, but glancing at him, she could see the thoughts lurking behind his dark eyes. She saw the movement of his mouth and knew he was agitated and was holding back questions and other words he wished to give. 

It felt strange to be led to father’s solar and find it empty. How many times had Luwin walked her here to speak with her father and mother? How many times had she come here looking for them?

 _It was here that they told me I was betrothed to Domeric._ She smiled at the memory, the first smile she felt on her lips since she was informed of Bran’s absence. She looked over at the desk half expecting Father to be there. To have his elbows resting on it and his hands clasped together in front of his chin. His grey eyes focused on the parchment below, but when he heard her come in, how quickly they’d change and the weariness would slip away and he’d smile at her, and get up to greet her.

He wasn’t there. 

The solar was empty. 

It was she who found herself sitting in her father’s seat at the table. She felt so small in it as if she was still that little girl who’d climb into it, giggling, pretending that she was Lady of Winterfell. Father would laugh and smile and ask her to make rulings, and in pretend she did. It was a fun and silly game. 

_Its no longer pretend,_ she reminded herself and sat straighter in her seat, remembering how father would look when he was sitting. He looked and projected himself to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and now the former’s role was on her and she’d not disappoint him. 

_I am the Lady of Winterfell._

Domeric had taken the seat Mother would sit in at father’s immediate right. Lady disappointed that there was no Summer had settled herself down near the hearth with a lazy groan as she got comfortable.

The fire was already lit, the servants or Luwin had the foresight to make the needed preparations for this meeting. Luwin and Rodrik moved to take seats across from them.

Sore and tired, she refused to show either, looking between the maester and castellan with a carefully guarded look. _I’m not the little girl you remember,_ she wanted them to know. _I’m Sansa Bolton, and I’m the Lady of Winterfell and future Lady of the Dreadfort._

“Explain to me,” She carefully kept her tone measured, “How Bran is missing and why he was not brought back upon that discovery?”

 _Why is my brother not here?_ She was yearning to see him. Sansa wanted to see him ride and hear his laugh. So that she could banish that last memory of him out of her mind of him still and broken on his bed. Instead, he was gone, and all she had to cling to was that sour thought which made her belly rumble. _I miss his smile._

“Hodor,” Ser Rodrik answered, the castellan of Winterfell still looked at a loss at what happened and how it happened.

 _Under his very nose,_ she kept that to herself, and insured none of that annoyance was conveyed in her face or tone. She instead gave him an encouraging nod to continue, knowing there must be more than their simpleton stablehand suddenly deciding to spirit Bran away one day. 

Luwin then explained the harness that had been constructed to allow Bran to move about the castle and how it worked with Hodor. He then revealed that besides her brother and Hodor that Jojen and Meera Reed and the wildling prisoner, Osha were all gone. 

She did not know the Reeds well, but she thought on them longer than the others. Sansa knew neither Bran nor Hodor were behind this decision, and that it had to be one of the other three. The wildling though tempting to blame, didn’t make sense. _Could this wildling subdue three others alone and take them all hostage?_ Sansa did not think so. 

Father spoke well of Howland Reed and considered him a true friend and loyal to House Stark. _Mayhaps, he did not teach such things to his children._

“And you sent out riders?” Domeric finally spoke. His tone was soft, but she sensed the agitation swirling underneath it. 

“Of course we did,” Ser Rodrik looked insulted that it had to be asked. “Summer was spotted in the south so we sent out riders there, but we could not find them.”

Luwin gave a sad nod at their plight of letting the acting Lord of Winterfell slip away from them. 

“It was then that we realized that they never went south, but north. Bran sent his wolf south to mislead us,” Luwin said, “I then asked for an inventory to be taken and realized we were missing foodstuff from our stores. They must have been slowly and carefully in small quantities taking what they needed for this trip. I would not be surprised if they snuck off parts of their supper too for them to store away.”

 _Bran sent Summer to mislead them,_ her heart worried over that. Was he more responsible than she first thought? _Bran’s a boy,_ she didn’t think it possible that he was the one who led and decided on this course. 

_Why would Bran want to leave?_ It didn’t make sense to her. 

“Why would they go north?” Sansa couldn’t understand why they left at all, but to go north was to go to the Wall. She knew Bran had always wanted to see it, but she could not think that was why they slipped away in the middle of the night. To visit the Wall and then for them to promptly return to Winterfell.

“We don’t know,” Luwin answered.

“Is it possible the wildling took them hostage?” Domeric was exploring one of the few leads they may have had, no matter how unlikely. Her taking them hostage and returning them to her people made some sort of sense, but to overtake all of them and lead them alone, didn’t. 

_Unless, she tricked them._ Still, Sansa wasn’t fully convinced, _but why take the wildling at all?_

“No,” Luwin dismissed, “Osha has served Winterfell well since Robb brought her back to the castle.”

“He should’ve just brought back her head,” was her husband’s mild response. 

Ser Rodrik looked aghast at Domeric’s brazenness. “She surrendered, Lord Robb was right to show her mercy.”

“And now she very well may have Bran,” Domeric didn’t even look interested in Rodrik’s reply. “And is traveling north,” He dismissed the looks they gave him. “This is the same wildling who wanted to take Bran and use him as a hostage for their King-Beyond-The-Wall. Or am I mistaken?” 

Luwin and Rodrik’s silence was louder than any answer they could’ve possibly given.

It was the castellan who found his voice first. “I taught you to disarm your opponents, Domeric not to dismember them.”

Her husband’s smile flickered across his face. “Ah, well that was learned at the Dreadfort, Ser Rodrik,” he answered mildly, “The benefits of being a Bolton.”

“What of Jojen and Meera?” Sansa did not need an argument to break out between her husband and Winterfell’s castellan. Bran may have used Summer to mislead the search parties, but he was not the one behind this silly idea to abandon Winterfell. 

No, she wouldn't believe it. She couldn’t.

 _They could’ve persuaded Bran,_ she reasoned, and then forced or lied to the wildling to get her complacent especially if they were traveling north. 

_Would they not need someone who knew that land?_ Sansa mulled it over, but she still could not figure out the reason for any of this. It was a bothersome feeling in the back of her mind, gnawing away just out of her reach. 

“They took a great interest in the godswood and went there often,” Luwin said, “I do remember upon them arriving that was when Bran spoke to me about magic and asked me about it and if it existed.” A sad smile played on his lips, “I think the boy just wanted some hope that he could use his legs again.”

 _Magic?_ Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of that, and exchanging a look with her husband told her plainly, he didn’t either. Reluctantly, she put it aside for now because there were other matters that needed to be addressed now that her brother had disappeared. 

“The rest of our retinue if they leave Castle Cerwyn in the morning should arrive sometime in the afternoon. They cannot know of Bran’s disappearance,” She had decided from the beginning that it must be kept a guarded secret. 

Domeric’s hand rested on her knee. 

Ser Rodrik was not a man made for deceit. “What would you have us say?”

She had an answer already. “We will say that Bran went south to foster at the Neck with Jojen and Meera Reed.” It could not be refuted, few paid the crannogmen much attention, and with their own disappearance along with Bran, it served to explain their absences as well. 

Sansa slipped out of her seat, a rush of drowsiness greeted her. She was feeling the effects of the late night ride. 

“A raven should be sent to Riverrun informing Lady Stark,” Domeric had followed her example and moved to join her. 

She knew what he was thinking about delivering that sort of news. Father had entrusted him with two of his children and Bran was already missing. _It’s not your fault._ She squeezed his shoulder. 

“A raven should be sent to Greywater Watch,” His face began to harden, “Summoning Howland Reed to Winterfell to explain the actions of his children.” 

Luwin’s eyes widened and Ser Rodrik looked scandalized by the mere suggestion of it. 

Sansa was coming to a similar conclusion as her husband. She did not know why they were doing it, but the Reeds were surely a part of this. _Bran would not just leave Winterfell._ She would not believe it. If the Reeds were responsible then their father must answer for them. 

“This is not a request,” She clarified, “His presence is demanded. He may come after the Harvest Feast if he wishes so as to not draw attention, but he must come.”

“My lady,” Luwin was taken aback by her tone. “Your father has always considered Howland Reed a friend to Winterfell.”

“Then Lord Reed has nothing to worry about,” Sansa dismissed, “This isn’t a message from the daughter of Lord Stark. This raven is sent by the Lady of Winterfell. Father has invested in me the powers to rule the north and with that, I demand Lord Howland Reed to make an appearance to explain the actions of his children and to determine if they are involved in anyway. Failure to answer or appear will make Winterfell consider House Reed a potential enemy to House Stark.” 

She moved to leave with Domeric beside her and Lady behind her. She paused to look back, to see their surprised faces, “I will see the letter before it is sent, but it will be sent today. Thank you.” 

* * *

She collapsed onto their bed as soon as she could. 

After her meeting with Luwin and Rodrik, both exhausted and stressed, she knew she had to see to the preparations of their guests expected later that day. Domeric had made the suggestion that she should rest and he’d oversee it. She had been hesitant, but her weariness made her accept. So she slept and her husband began the preparations for their guests and for Winterfell to hold everyone which included settling their Bolton guards at Winter Town. 

He woke her before the guests arrived to give her enough time to prepare herself. She then greeted them with her husband, and afterwards it was Domeric who found his way to their chambers to sleep. 

The Harvest Feast was quickly approaching and Sansa needed to ensure Winterfell was ready to host the northern nobility. There were matters and disputes she sat on from the smallfolk and she quickly realized that things were more dire than she realized. With so many men in the south there was fear that there would not be enough left to work the fields to bring in all the harvest and that would lead to all sorts of problems if it could not be resolved.

And what men they did have may be needed to be raised to march north if this King-Beyond-the-Wall believed himself capable of challenging the Stark’s dominion over the north. She prayed it did not come to actual battle, but being the Lady of Winterfell she had to do more than that. She had to prepare for it. 

_I cannot fear it,_ she reminded herself, _I can only be ready for it._

“I thought we’d never leave,” Domeric grumbled. He had been woken up so that he could attend the feast with her, but his tone clearly conveyed he wished he just stayed asleep. 

She agreed. After everything she had gone through during the day, the trials and the headaches, all she wanted was to just withdraw for the evening with Domeric and eat a quiet supper. It was a luxury she wasn’t afforded. She was Lady of Winterfell now and had to properly host her guests who had traveled with them from the Riverlands. 

So she sat in Father’s seat in the Great Hall to feast their Frey guests. She did all that was required of her as the host. It had been a trying supper. It was not the duties that weighed heavily on her. It was the ghosts and empty chairs. All the familiar faces she was used to seeing around her, but none of them were there. 

_Robb, Jon, Arya, Mother, Father, Rickon, Bran._ It was a long list. It felt so strange for her to be in the Great Hall, but without her family. _It’s just me and Domeric now._ More than once, her heart conjured the sight of Bran sitting beside her. He would be grinning and talking excitedly at what he had been doing that day. He’d be more focused on his stories than his supper. 

_Where are you, Bran?_ The questions would not leave her. _Why did you go?_

She had read Luwin’s summons to Howland Reed before the evening meal. He had once more voiced his disapproval of it, but when asked how else were they to find out what happened to her brother, he offered her nothing. So the letter was sent using the raven specifically trained for Greywater Watch. 

The bird had to be specially trained because of the castle’s unique ability to move throughout the swamps. So every Lord of Greywater Watch would give a special raven to the Lord of Winterfell to ensure that House Reed would always answer when Winterfell called them. 

It had been a long and tiresome feast before Sansa and Domeric finally excused themselves. It was only after she believed they were there long enough so no slight could be taken by their departure.

They had been given the largest set of guest chambers within the Great Keep. Her room was deemed too small for both of them to be comfortable. They decided not to use the Guest House since that would be needed for the Harvest Feast. She didn’t like the idea of staying there and then having to uproot back to the First Keep once the northern nobles began to arrive. 

This arrangement allowed them space and privacy since it would give them their own solar. It even included a second bed chamber where a visiting lord’s wife could retire to, but Sansa confidently foresaw that room seeing little use from them while she and Domeric were here. 

_Mayhaps, we’ll make it Lady’s room,_ she smiled. It was no longer easy to share a bed with a direwolf of Lady’s size. Not to mention, now that she is married, she much preferred to share her bed with her husband. Lady was graceful, but would make the occasional noise of protest when they asked her to get off the bed when it was time to sleep. 

“Lady Sansa?” It was a timid, but familiar voice that came from behind their door. It was Jeyne. 

Sansa reluctantly sat up to greet her friend. She looked over her shoulder to see Domeric was sitting by the hearth. “You may enter, Jeyne” 

She did, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sansa.” Her eyes showing her hesitation for her intrusion. 

“I thought Colmar was to escort you to your chambers,” Sansa remembered it well since it had been her who had planted the idea in his head. 

“He was,” Jeyne’s voice betrayed her feeling for her husband’s squire, “He is.”

Sansa smothered the smile she wanted to show at how smoothly her plan for Colmar and Jeyne was going. It may not be _honorable,_ but that did not bother her. She cared far more for Arya than any Frey. 

This way it would be on the Freys and not her family. She saw the way Colmar looked at Jeyne. Sansa thought it’d be just a matter of time before his control slipped which would then lead to a potential scandal. It had worked easily enough on Fair Walda. Sansa had not liked her nor did she want her to come north, so she devised a plan to rid herself of Walda. It had been easy to quietly arrange for Walda’s downfall. 

_A pity for her she was caught with a household knight instead of a lord or heir,_ Sansa had thought afterwards without feeling any such pity. O _r perhaps Fair Walda should just be thankful she wasn’t caught with one of her kin._ She pushed that reminder of certain Freys and their _Targaryen practices_ out of her mind as quickly as it had come. 

Besides, she thought, Colmar and Jeyne were a good match for one another. It was not a political one for the Freys, but certainly a personal one for him. It would also make her friend very happy and Sansa thought Jeyne deserved it.

“You asked me to inform you when all the Freys had settled into their chambers.” 

“I did,” Sansa remembered now, “Thank you.” She smiled at her friend, she was pleased to see some of the old Jeyne beginning to emerge now that they were back at Winterfell. She did not mean the old mean Jeyne that would pick on Arya. No, it was the happiness that had been taken from her since that terrible day at the capital when Sansa’s father was arrested and Jeyne’s father was killed. 

Jeyne slipped out of their room quietly and that was when Sansa for a flickering heartbeat saw Colmar waiting outside, before the door closed behind them. The look he tried to hide when watching Jeyne was easy for her to read. 

“Colmar is quite smitten with Jeyne.”

Domeric sighed. “Must we speak about Freys in our bedchambers?” 

She giggled. She felt the bed shift with her husband joining her. “So,” She said, “What should we be doing in our bedchambers?”

“I’ll show you.” 

She happily let him, deciding that rest could wait a little while longer.

* * *

**Robb:**

_To Robb,_

_How is Bran?_

_Tell him he must take me on a ride when I return to Winterfell, and that I’ll insist if I have to. Ser Arys has said he will show him a few tips of wielding a sword on horseback that he learned in the Reach._

_I envy the bonds between your siblings. Sansa talks of you often and the mischief you all caused. The stories are delightful and entertaining. However, I now fear what tricks you and your brothers will have planned for me when I get to Winterfell. It was only ever really me and Tommen. And,_ something had been written, but then thoroughly crossed out and blotted, making it impossible for him to read. 

_I miss you, and I wait patiently for your correspondence. Ser Arys just said I do not wait patiently. He may be right, but that does not mean he can correct his princess. I_ _excitedly_ _look forward to your next letter. Ser Arys approved of the word, so it is written._

_Bran will be first in my prayers tonight._

_All my best,_

_Myrcella_

Robb folded up the old letter. 

_That had been the last true one that she sent to me._ The one that came after had been her brother’s words forced to be written by her hand. There’s been silence ever since. 

He had brought most of her correspondence with him. He had left Winterfell still planning on marrying her, and her letters brought him comfort and a feeling of contentment while he camped and marched his way from Winterfell through the north and into the Riverlands. 

His original plan was to get father and her. 

He sighed. _I rescued my father, but I could not rescue her._

He put the letter on his desk.

 _She is a bastard born of incest. She is not a princess._ The prickly voice of Septa Mordane haunted him. _She’s an abomination._

It was true. He knew that, but then he’d read her letters which were filled with such warmth and compassion and charm, and he could not help but see her differently. _These are not the words of an abomination._

He knew what was right and what was wrong, but still he struggled. His thoughts and emotions wrangled with one another tirelessly, but all he wanted was peace. 

“Is that from Jon?” 

The suddenness of the voice startled Robb, jumping out of his seat, his heart pounding. “ARYA!” He said his sister’s name like a curse when he spun around to see her standing beside him with a sheepish smile.

“I told you I do not like when you do that.” The _that_ was arriving unannounced and the sneaking up on him. 

“I forgot,” She said, not quite meeting his stern gaze. 

Robb took a breath to try to calm his frantic heartbeat and to reel in the nerves that Arya had startled. He wanted to blame it solely on his sister’s sneakiness, but this castle put him on edge. 

_Harrenhal,_ He had been camped here for more than a fortnight, and yet he grew no closer in his comfort of the place. This enormous ruined castle with melted brick and burnt stone was rumored to have all sorts of ghosts and shades that crept in the shadows. 

He took up his rooms in the Widow’s Tower. It was large, dirty, dusty, and filled with grime. He didn’t think twenty straight years of cleaning could scrounge this place of the ill feeling that seemed to tickle at the back of his neck here and there. 

It was too big. Too monstrous in size, and now it resembled a broken husk of a once glorious creation. 

Arya on the other hand liked the tower, because of the stories that came with it featuring Queen Rhaena Targaryen, a dragon rider, and widow of two kings. She liked to explore its crevices and corners admiring the remnants of what was left behind and possibly to find anything that may have once belonged to the Queen. Harrenhal too, fascinated her since it was destroyed by Aegon and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys both of whom, Arya loved to hear stories about. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be with Princess Shireen?”

“I was,” Arya answered, “And we were having fun, Lyanna too, but t _he Queen_ did not like it,” Arya made a face at the mention of King Stannis’ wife, and it made Robb laugh. “ _We were not conducting ourselves like proper noblewomen.”_

“You mustn’t speak so freely about her, Arya,” His rebuke had no bite to it, and Arya knew it, by the smile she gave him. “I’m surprised she hasn’t learned that we northerners aren’t proper nobles,” He teased, pleased at the mischievous glint in his sister’s eye. She agreed with his assessment with an enthusiastic nod. 

“Is this from Jon?” She showed her quickness by snatching Myrcella’s letter from his desk. 

“Arya,” Robb’s tone stopped her fingers from opening it. 

“Sorry,” she bit her lip, giving it immediately back without trying to read it, a remarkable show of restraint from his very curious sister. 

“Thank you,” He pocketed the letter to remove any further temptation. _I should throw it in the flames,_ but he never did. “It was an old letter from the Princess.” He found himself saying.

“You like her.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Robb put in brusquely, trying to misdirect his sister and her astute observation. “It’s not about liking my bride. Our marriages are about helping our family.” The words were said out of duty not desire. He’s been dreading receiving a raven from his father informing him that he was in negotiations in a betrothal with a maiden who Robb did not know. 

_If it brought us the Vale does it matter?_

His head gave one answer, but his heart another. 

“Sansa liked hers,” Arya pointed out. She had moved to sit on his bed. The topic of betrothals was not one his sister readily talked about since it reminded her of her own complicated situation with the Freys. They both knew if and when Father dismissed the Freys’ betrothal it did not mean Arya was free from marriage. She’d just be betrothed to someone else in an effort to solidify alliances.

“We are not all so fortunate,” Robb reminded her. 

“Jon too,” Arya added with a pout, “It doesn’t seem fair that they get to like their betrothals but we don’t.”

“They took all the luck,” Robb observed dryly, trying to make sure he didn’t sound bitter that his future marriage didn’t have the same promising potential as either Jon’s or Sansa’s.

“Still,” She wasn’t mollified, crossing her arms over her chest, “I don’t like it.”

Robb moved to sit beside her on the bed. He put an arm around her. “We must help our family,” He reminded her. “If a marriage can help us end this war swiftly and safely get us back to Winterfell. Does that not seem a fair price to pay?”

She chewed on her lip, thinking it over. “But we’re the ones paying it.” 

He chuckled at her tone, “Aye, we are, but I’d marry the ugliest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms if it meant you got to be happy and free.”

Arya snickered, “Truly?”

“Truly,” He confirmed, even in jest, he found himself meaning it upon seeing the bright smile his sister gave him before giving him a fierce hug. 

“Fortunately for you,” She said softly, “That Queen Selyse is already married.”

“Arya,” Robb’s correction turned into a laugh while he held her.

That was how Olyvar found them to inform them that a rider from Jon’s party arrived with news. 

_The Lannisters had broken the truce._

* * *

“Arrogance,” Ser Axell Florent insured his voice was heard first after Robb gave his suggestion to King Stannis on how best to take advantage after learning of the Lannisters breaking the truce. 

The king had gathered them in his solar in the Kingspyre Tower. It was a large room that looked more fitting for a great hall than a simple solar. It was well furnished, a large weirwood table was anchored at its center, where the king had gathered his council to decide what to do next. 

Still, like all the castle, Robb did not like it. He remembered this was the tower that Harren and his sons were in when they were burned alive. Remnants of the Targaryen’s unrelenting attack was seen in the brick and stone at how it melted and twisted buckling under the intense power of Dragonflame. 

_Did they perish in this room?_ He suppressed the shiver as that uneasy feeling coldly latched itself onto him. 

It was a large room, but a small council. 

King Stannis stood alone on his side of the table. He was not dressed like a king. He wore simple and plain clothes, black trousers and a grey tunic. His belt contained studden garnetts and yellow topaz, but those were hardly jewels of a king. 

Ser Axell Florent who for reasons Robb did not know had found himself a place at the king’s table. He had served as Stannis’ castellan at Dragonstone for more than a decade. 

_If only the king left him there,_ Robb thought unhappily. The old knight had not liked him from the beginning, and Robb neither saw a reason to like let alone respect him. He was arrogant and dismissive and thought more of his worth than what it truly was.

Ser Davos, the smuggler who Robb had gotten to know and like while he was at Riverrun had traveled with his father to the Vale. His was a presence that Robb missed. 

The last person of their council was the Lady Melisandre. She was a red priestess of R'hllor and rumored to be a shadowbinder out of Asshai. She stood away from them and the table as if their words or their tactics were unworthy of her attention. Her back was to them, looking into the bright orange flames of the roaring fire that was nestled into the huge hearth. 

“He tells us he can take a castle, but not how,” Ser Axell was a short man with thick arms and bandy legs. He had the prominent ears of a Florent, which only accentuated his homely appearance. 

“I do not tell out of caution,” Robb restrained his anger that wanted to lash out at the man standing across from him. “The Lannisters held this castle before us. It is not foolish to think they may have spies still here. It is a large castle and _roaches_ will always scatter and hide.” 

There was another reason for why he hesitated. It was because he did not want to reveal how this plan came to him. Before Robb had settled in Harrenhal, he scouted the borders between the Riverlands and Westerlands to ensure that the truce was being observed. It was there that he found something.

 _No, it was not me,_ he corrected himself, _It was Grey Wind. I saw it through his eyes. We were one._

He and wolf together found a hidden goat path that could allow them to avoid the Golden Tooth. 

If he were to relay that secret path aloud, he feared it could lead back to the Lannisters and they’d adjust accordingly. He was counting on speed and stealth to bring them this successful invasion into the Westerlands.

“The gall,” Ser Axell replied, “I have served His Grace faithfully for more than ten years,” he sneered, “And I would not betray either him or the Lord of Light,” He bowed his head in reverence with his last statement. 

The knight was a fervent follower of this religion, that Robb had barely heard of. However, since they brought the north into the fold under Stannis, he was seeing more of it, and it did not leave him with a good impression. 

_It is everywhere,_ he noticed, _including on the king’s banner and in his council._ He did not think Stannis was a believer like his wife or Ser Axell, which was the only relief Robb could find about the matter.

“The Lord of Light will give us victory,” Melisandre finally turned to face them. The glow of the fire behind her made her look ethereal. 

Robb did not like how her eyes were looking at him.

“I have seen it in the flames, my king,” That powerful gaze turned to Stannis, who was standing stiff and silent. He looked more bothered at her attention than pleased. 

_He may be the only man who would,_ he thought of his king and the adviser he brought with him. Robb was slightly uncomfortable around her, but he could not deny that she was beautiful. 

She was near enchanting with how she looked, presented herself, and her exotic lilt from her time in the eastern part of the world. Slender, and graceful, her hair was long and the color of burnish copper. She wore loose, red robes and on her pale neck she wore a red-gold choker containing a ruby. 

“A victory led by Stannis,” Ser Axell was quick to jump in on the priestess’ words. “Not a boy,” His worshipping look turned sour when he turned from Melisandre to then Robb. 

“ _Lord_ Robb Stark has won more battles in a year than you have in twenty,” Stannis cut in bluntly. He did not even cast a glance in the direction of the offended Florent knight. “I will hear his plans,” He said, “Alone, and he’ll have my answer then.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Robb bowed his head. 

“Then victory we will have,” Melisandre looked unbothered at not being invited. Her gaze stayed on Robb, and her ruby lips curved upwards. “I have seen you in the flames, Robb Stark.” 

_Was I on fire?_ He thought dryly, but the tone she spoke it in made him keep it to himself. She spoke in such reverence as if he should be honored to be seen in a fire. Robb wasn’t.

“Yes,” she took his silence as if he was pleased at her premonition. “You are important in the battles to come, Robb Stark, your bastard brother too, Jon Snow.” She decided, “I’ve seen you both and more.” 

From the corner of his vision he could see a pouting Ser Axell Florent at the attention Robb was getting, but not wanting. His eyes held longing in her direction. He yearned to be blessed by her words, when Robb just wanted her to look anywhere but him. 

If she expected him to feel comfort at such words, he didn’t. It was unease that built in his stomach. 

_I do not believe in her flames or Lord of Light,_ he reminded himself, _so why did the discomfort remain?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre doesn't have the same influence/pull in this story as she does at this time in the books. My reasoning for this is because the north and riverlands so quickly came over to Stannis. That means the Sept at Dragonstone was never burned and Cressen is not dead. However, Melisandre is still an adviser with a growing following. 
> 
> Just a quick reminder that if you notice a discrepancy in this story it is more than likely a liberty I’m taking. Such as a raven being able to find Greywater Watch. Or Winterfell's design and how things made be added to it. So no need to point them out. I’m aware. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire
> 
> P.S: If anyone needed/wanted a refresher or was curious about Bran and the Reeds and any possible hints you can go back and reread chapter 52 (Arya VII) of ‘Our Blades Are Sharp.’


	4. Four

**Jon:**

He found his brother on the bridge that connected the Kingspyre Tower to the Widow’s Tower.

Robb was leaning against the stone railing, looking out onto the breadth of land sprawled out far below the ruined castle. He heard him approach, looking over his shoulder and smiling at him, but it did not reach his eyes. “Your rider said it was successful?”

“In part,” Jon had gotten Lorch, but they had not arrived to save everyone. “The Watch is not without its losses.”

“They’ll need every man they can get,” Robb commented, “If Mance is truly marching on the Wall.”

“We saved most.” Jon moved to stand beside him. 

The view before them was spectacular. The sunlight shimmered on the calming waters of the God’s Eye, resembling a sea of glittering sapphires. Beyond the lake was an ocean of green, but colorful signs of Autumn sprouted here and there with the leaves blooming in yellow, orange, and red. 

“There was a fire and it took some of the recruits.” Jon thought about the charred ruins of that cage and the three corpses inside. He wondered what the criminals had done to deserve such confinement. 

Yoren, the Wandering Crow had taken a wound in the fighting, but the maester at Harrenhal, said he’d recover. Jon remembered him from when they had been traveling with Lord Tyrion before the war. 

_ “Good thing I saved ya Snow back in that Inn.”  _ Yoren had remembered too.

Jon had agreed with him and then left him to the maester. It fell on the castle’s castellan not Jon to find rooms and food for the surviving Watch recruits. They were a mixture of thieves, rapers, orphans, and the desperate. 

_ They would’ve been my brothers.  _ That thought played in his mind when he went to look for his true brother.  _ It was not to be, _ and looking back at everything and everyone in the past year, he was thankful for it. 

“Stannis is marching?” Jon had seen some of the men preparing and had heard mumblings. 

“He is.”

“And you?” 

“I’m leading the campaign into the Westerlands,” There was little vigor in Robb’s voice and he did not seem inclined to speak more. 

Jon was curious about his brother’s mood, but he did not want to press him so he settled to join him in the silence. It was peaceful, a contentment between them. The only sound that could be heard was that of the wind whistling in their ears, strong and swirling at this towering height. 

He rested his hands on the parapet, looking at the stonework of the railings. It used to be exquisite of finely carved animals and men, but they’ve long since lost their pride. They were no longer an example of extraordinary craftsmanship. 

No, now they served as part of the larger example of what happened to those who defied House Targaryen.

_ My ancestors,  _ Jon saw their legacy everywhere. The towers that crumpled and waned under the intensity of dragon fire, and now resembled melted candlesticks instead of impressive turrets. 

_ It was here he crowned her,  _ Jon knew the story since he was a boy, but now it was different. It felt different. He was different.  _ When I heard it then I was Lord Stark’s bastard son.  _

_ Now,  _ he paused,  _ I’m their son.  _

_ My Father was Rhaegar Targaryen.  _ He would not forget the look on Lorch’s piglike face when it sunk in.  _ Nor will I forget his screams when the wolves tore him apart.  _

_ Some men don’t deserve honor.  _

Domeric had said those words to Jon with the utmost conviction. This had been after Lord Stark had chided him for what he did to the Mummers. It had not changed Domeric’s mind. There was no remorse in what he did, just iron certainty. Jon hadn’t fully understood it then, but now...

_ Lorch killed my sister,  _ Jon’s fists clenched on the railing,  _ stabbed her half a hundred times, a girl of three. She was my sister.  _ In his mind’s eye it was Arya, riddled with cuts and slashes, dripping red, laying on a Lannister Cloak presented to Joffrey. He was grinning. Jon’s stomach tightened and he pushed it away. 

He would not let that image settle. 

Lorch had boasted of killing her and how Aegon had his head bashed in. His words dripped with a sick pride for the role he played in murdering those children.  _ My brother, my sister.  _

_ He kills children and thinks himself a knight.  _ It was disgusting.  _ I delivered justice.  _

When the remaining Lannister men had thrown down their swords, they had been quick to reveal who their leader was. As soon as he heard the name, Ghost was gone, and Jon followed. He could not allow him to go free. 

_ I heard his words. I looked into his eyes. I sentenced him.  _ His resolve never wavered. He would not let any doubt try to cling to him for what he did.

“Jon?”

He turned to see Robb watching him.

_ What would he say? Would he be proud of you?  _ A voice whispered inside him, but Jon ignored it. “What did you say?” He hadn’t heard the question, but he did notice the troubled look on his brother’s face.

He hesitated, as if he did not want to repeat himself. 

“Robb?” Jon found himself frowning at his brother’s reluctance. 

He looked away and sighed. “Never mind,” He turned back to face him. He smiled, but it was forced. 

“Who are you taking with you into the Westerlands?” Jon asked, but it was the previous question he really wanted Robb to answer. 

“Lords Bolton, Hornwood, Karstark, Lady Mormont,” he listed, “Many of the Riverlords including Piper and Bracken, and Ser Stevron Frey. There are those who want vengeance for what the Lannisters did to their people and lands.” 

Jon remembered. He saw the burning homesteads, fields ruined, corpses on the road. 

Tywin Lannister had sent the Mountain, Amory Lorch, and Vargo Hoat to terrorize the Riverlands.

_ And now all three are dead.  _ Jon had been responsible for the first two while Domeric had taken care of Hoat and his sellswords. The Riverlands were restored to peace and justice had been delivered to those who wronged them. 

“When do you leave?”

“In the morning, we need to keep the element of surprise. The riverlords will join us as we march.”

Jon knew that would be the answer, but it still disappointed him, because of what it would lead to. 

“Does what we discussed with father in regards to the plan remain the same?” 

“It does.”

_ So I’m going north.  _ Father had already sent orders, men, and supplies to the coast and Moat Cailin. With the former he was having watchtowers and beacons built and manned to prepare themselves for any Ironborn sighting. For the time being, it was Robbett Glover who was overseeing the new improvements along the coast. Jon would go first to Moat Cailin to examine its improved defenses and if satisfied, he’d move on to the coast. 

_ To my seat.  _ Father had sent men weeks ago and said he hoped the temporary wooden hall would be finished by the time Jon and Dacey arrived.  _ A gift for my son and his future wife.  _

It was not going to his new home with Dacey that upset him. No, it was the parting from his brother that bothered him, and the not knowing when he’d see him again.

_ Robb was marching off to fight lions and I could be fighting Ironborn.  _

The wind whistled and whipped around them. 

“So tomorrow I’m rid of ya?” Jon tried to smile, because he did not want to think of having to say farewell to his brother. 

_ I’ve said it enough already to my family.  _ Domeric and Sansa when they headed north to Winterfell. Father, who had left to go to the Vale. Rickon remained at Riverrun with Lady Stark, and now Robb was marching on the Westerlands and then Arya. She would be going to Winterfell. 

_ Only weeks ago we were all together save for Bran,  _ Jon had cherished that time. He had watched Dacey and Arya spar, go riding with Robb and Domeric, trained with Sansa, and chased Rickon around in the godswood.  _ Now, we’re separating again. _

__ It reminded him of the last time the family parted in so many directions. It was when the King came to Winterfell. What followed were threats, deception, and battles against him and his family. They were fortunate to come out intact, would they be so lucky a second time?

Robb’s soft chuckle was still able to break through Jon’s fragile thoughts. 

“Aye, I have to remind the Lannisters that the Young Wolf is the one to fear.”

This time Jon did smile. “In that case, you’ll never leave the Westerlands.”

Robb’s laugh was loud and sincere. He clapped Jon on the back and for the first time since he joined his brother out here, he saw the Robb he knew and cherished: Bright eyes, charming smile, warm laugh. That Robb seemed more a stranger now these past few weeks than Jon would’ve liked. 

Jon stayed with him, smiling and laughing, and pretended that tomorrow wasn’t going to come. 

* * *

Ghost moved past Jon when they reached his chambers in the Widow’s Tower. His direwolf claimed his usual spot near the lit hearth.

His chambers had been tidied when he was gone.  _ Or as best as they could be.  _ He did not envy those responsible who were tasked with maintaining  _ Harrenhal. _

His bed was neatly made and its grey curtains pulled back. The desk was organized. The tall glass windows were cleaned where rays of sunlight easily filled the room with light. He put  _ Longclaw  _ down on the table and waited for the servants to arrive with the light food and drink he asked for. 

On one of his chairs the cloak had been folded instead of draped as he left it. He moved to retrieve it. 

It was the cloak Sansa had made for him. It had been a surprise from her before she and Domeric left. 

He smiled, running his fingers across the red fabric, before they reached the spot where the white direwolf had been skillfully stitched into it. It was sprinting along the red field. She had outdone herself, the direwolf upon this cloak bore a striking resemblance to Ghost. His hand atop the cloth direwolf’s head, his instincts had moved him to pet it. 

He held it out to better admire it. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself holding it in the godswood, lanterns lit, where he patiently waited for Dacey to arrive before the heart tree. 

_ With this cloak she will be mine and I will be hers.  _

_ This is the standard of Ser Jon of the Hollow Hill _ . That was what Ser Beric called him when he had knighted Jon. Other names soon followed:  _ Protector of the Red Fork, the White Wolf,  _ with those he thought his standard was well picked. 

_ What of the Lord of Sea Dragon Point?  _ He saw something besides the white wolf upon his banners.  _ The Mormont Bear?  _ He tried to picture it, a bear and wolf together upon a banner, a promising glimpse of their future. 

_ The woman is important too,  _ Arya’s words echoed through him, and they sounded just as fierce as they did back then. 

_ A Mormont bear and a Stark wolf,  _ he found himself liking the possibility but what he liked more was what it meant for her, and him, together, starting this new house. 

_ Red too,  _ he decided, folding the cloak.  _ It is not much, but I cannot deny that part of me.  _ He had wanted to and at times it was tempting to try to push it away to forget. His conversation with Dacey eased away the remaining fears and struggles. 

_ She accepted me without hesitation,  _ he would never forget it or her reaction, her comfort, her support. He put back the cloak where it had rested. 

That was when the servants arrived with the pitcher of ale, and an assortment of food from the kitchens including warm bread with apples, strawberries, and plums. He thanked them, they curtseyed, and left. He was still not used to such treatment, such respect by how some would look at him, talk about him. 

_ I no longer wear the name Snow,  _ a black, tattered cloak that had been stripped away, and now he was a knight, and the lord of Sea Dragon Point.  _ A lord without a name,  _ he pushed aside that minor inconvenience. He and Dacey could not settle on one, and it did not seem right to make such a choice lightly or without proper agreement with his future wife. 

Jon had poured himself a tankard of ale when she arrived. He straightened up seeing her presence in the doorway, “Lady Mormont.” 

Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, took in his reaction before chuckling. She waved a calloused hand, dismissing his need for such formalities. “You are to be my good son, Jon,” she reminded him with a smile that he liked to think was of pride, "Pour me an ale if you would,” she asked kindly. 

Jon did, and then slid it across the table where she deftly grabbed it. Lady Mormont drank a long sip of the ale, showing her satisfaction with it. That look left when her eyes found  _ Longclaw  _ resting unceremoniously beside the light spread of food. 

That was why he had asked to see her. He had decided  _ Longclaw _ was not his to carry anymore. He was not marrying Dacey to be her husband while she ruled Bear Island as its Lady. They were starting their own house, their own family.  _ Longclaw  _ was not the sword of the Lord of Sea Dragon Point. It was House Mormont’s sword. It belonged to them. He could not keep it. 

“Lady Mormont,” He said respectfully, “I’m formally returning  _ Longclaw  _ to House Mormont.” 

She made no move to take it. Her eyes went from the sword to Jon, her face was weathered, but her expression remained elusive to him. “I have spoken to Dacey and I have exchanged letters with Alysane my brother too,” Lady Mormont began, “And we have agreed that you may continue to carry  _ Longclaw.” _

“What do you mean?” He tried not to frown. “It belongs to House Mormont.” 

“Aye, it does,” Lady Mormont agreed, but bitterness began to creep into her expression, “And it once  _ belonged _ to my nephew,” Her mouth twisting. “His example showed us that perhaps its not just blood that should matter when it comes to who will carry  _ Longclaw.”  _ Her grip around her tankard tightened.

“Jorah had the right to wield it, but look what his  _ right  _ brought to our family?” She pushed the sword across the table towards Jon. “He brought us disgrace. Mayhaps that is the one bright spot we can find in my nephew’s shameful deeds. To show us that blood right should no longer be enough. That those with good hearts should be the ones to wield it. And I can think of no one finer than you.” 

“I-I,” Jon looked down at the sword. The bear pommel met its stare. Its black gaze was daunting. 

“You are not some stranger, Jon,” She reminded him. “You will be my good son. Your children will be just as much Mormont as Stark,” she smiled.

“You will wield it, and then when the children are older it will be decided who has the right to wield it next. Will it be a Mormont of Bear Island? Or our Mormont kin at Sea Dragon Point? Or perhaps none are ready and if so then it will be returned to Bear Island to wait for the next one who believes themselves worthy of following the example of  _ Ser Jon.” _

Jon found his hands running along the pommel of the sword. He was still reluctant to grab it despite Lady Mormont’s encouraging look. 

“Our family will not allow the chance for  _ Longclaw  _ to be tainted again.” 

“Thank you,” He felt the slight swell in his throat. Her strong show of support and trust in him meant more than those two words that he uttered could truly convey, but thankfully, she looked to have understood. 

What she was proposing made him think of  _ Dawn,  _ and the Swords of the Morning to the few men in House Dayne’s history worthy to carry such a blade. If none were deemed appropriate for the title then the sword and title would remain unused and wait. 

Now _ Longclaw _ too will only be given to only the just and worthy. His fingers came around to grip it and lift it from the table. Its weight was familiar. As were the noticeable ripples in the dark sea of steel when he pulled it from its scabbard. He looked back at Lady Mormont as if expecting her to change her mind, but she did not. She only smiled at him. It was proud and sure. 

_ They will look to me,  _ he realized, of those who’d come after him wanting to wield  _ Longclaw.  _ That thought did not feel like a burden to him, but an opportunity that he was now ready to take. 

* * *

**Arya:**

Their supper that night was held in the Widow Tower. 

When Harrenhal was built, King Hoare did not put a solar in every one of his prized towers. As magnificent as his castle was, he had wanted to ensure that the tower where he’d reside would be the most impressive and unique. A display of his power and influence to any guest who’d come visit him in his new home. Unfortunately for the Iron Born king his first guests to Harrenhal proved to be his last. And the power he thought he’d wield melted away to dragon fire.

_ Visenya and Rhaenys _ , Arya knew their names and their successes by heart, awed by all that they accomplished.

_ They fought with their brother for the crown and they won.  _ Arya wasn’t allowed to fight. It wasn’t fair. 

So because of King Hoare’s pride they had to turn one of the bed chambers into a solar to allow them all to sit comfortably and eat. The bed had been pushed to the far corner of the room out of the way. The dust gathered on the floor, walls, and furniture showed that this room had been untouched and unused before them for a long time.

A new table was brought in for them. It was not large, but there were only a few attendants at tonight’s supper.

Robb sat at the head of the table. This was his last night at Harrenhal before his march to the west. 

Arya frowned down into her bowl of stew. She didn’t want to think about Robb going off to battle. It had hurt her stomach the first time when she was in Winterfell with Rickon and Bran and Robb left with the might of the north to save father. 

Jon sat across from her and Dacey sat on his other side while her sister, Lyanna sat next to Arya. Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Ghost were positioned near the table, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to quickly reach any possible food that may fall or be fed to them. 

She and Lyanna were sharing a bowl of sugared almonds. A few had been placed in small bowls around their table. Their warm and sweet taste helped to loosen the knots that were forming in her belly. 

“When I return,” Robb said it so simply like he was just riding to a nearby holdfast to visit a bannerman instead of what it really was-war. “Will you have a family name?”

“We have a family name,” Dacey said, “The problem is we change our mind nearly every day.” 

“We’ve called ourselves many things,” Jon added dryly. 

“Today its Morstark,” Dacey replied to the unasked question. 

Aray smiled at the name. She understood what it was and liked the idea of Dacey’s name being included too.  _ I’ll lose my name.  _ Arya’s smile dipped thinking of the future when some stranger would drape her in another cloak and she’d no longer be a wolf of Winterfell. She hated it. 

“Should we reveal  _ how _ the name came up?” Dacey was smiling, “More Starks.” She winked at Jon. 

“If you wish to speak so freely in front of my sister and yours,” Robb’s warm smile had melted away the stoicism. The _ lord’s _ face that had clung so tightly to him throughout the day. 

Jon looked first to his betrothed and then Robb. “Just be thankful it doesn’t involve a bear.”

Dacey laughed and Lyanna was giggling neither offended by Jon’s blunt response. 

“How’s the new armor?” Robb asked Jon, deciding he didn’t want the details of what was discussed among the Mormont women. 

“Armor?” Arya perked. She hadn’t heard anything about new armor. She looked to Jon, but his eyes were on Robb. He wasn’t frowning at their brother. No, it was something different. .

Robb did not mind. He gave Jon a small smile and leaned back in his seat. 

Their conversation was silent and private. She didn’t like it.  _ Tell me too!  _ Arya wanted to say.  _ I’m your sister.  _

“I only just received it,” Jon turned to her with an apologetic look as if sensing her growing displeasure. 

Arya nodded, it made her feel better. She knew Jon had Dacey now, but they never not told each other things. She was afraid for those fleeting seconds that he had forgotten about her. 

_ Stupid!  _ She told herself,  _ Jon will never do that.  _

“You’ll like it,” Dacey had apparently seen it. Her tone was approving, “Very nicely made, it was given to him by some of the Riverlords.” She put her hand on Jon’s. “Their gratitude for his effort in the Riverlands.” The pride in her voice was clear. 

“It was not needed.”

“Yes, we know,” Her green eyes were teasing, “You did it out of honor and duty,” Her tone would’ve sounded bored if it wasn’t for her smirk. “He’s already said this a few times.” 

Jon chuckled, amused not annoyed at Dacey’s light mocking. 

“What does it look like?” Lyanna asked. Dacey’s youngest sister clearly cared more about the armor than her sister’s affection for her betrothed. 

“It’s scale armor,” Dacey was happy to answer, “Red scales to match his standard.” 

“Scale armor?” Lyanna repeated, “like a fish?” 

Arya had thought the same thing. She remembered the armor at Riverrun and how Grandfather’s guards wore it and how it was made to resemble the trout scales of her mother’s family. Her Uncles too, Edmure and the Blackfish. She couldn’t see Jon in armor that looked anything like something that House Tully would wear.

“No, not a fish,” Dacey corrected, “more like a lizard-lion,” She offered, “Or a dragon.”

Arya tried to picture him in this red scaled armor, but it still seemed a little silly.  _ He’s not a lizard-lion or a dragon. He’s a wolf like us.  _

She noticed Robb had been quiet. She turned to see he was watching Jon with a small smile, but it was his look that stuck with Arya. It reminded her of the one her parents would have when they watched her opening the gifts they’d give her for her name day. 

“Enameled on the chest,” Dacey tapped Jon’s chest. “Is the white wolf.”

The talking continued, and Arya watched trying to fool herself into thinking that nothing was about to change. They smiled and laughed and she wanted to believe with every part of her heart that her brother wasn’t about to march into the lion’s den and into battle. 

When her eyes found Jon, he gave her a different smile. It wasn’t of mirth. It was a secret smile. The one they gave each other back at Winterfell to show their support when they couldn’t use words.  _ It was her favorite smile. It was theirs.  _

It was the only thing that could give her comfort that night. 

* * *

It had been days since Robb marched, but she still felt some tightness in her belly.

_ I can fight.  _ It was more a plea than a request. She had come to him the morning he was leaving. 

_ You can, _ he admitted in a tone as if it was obvious. That had tripped her up. She had prepared her argument against him saying something else.  _ You can’t come Arya because you don’t listen,  _ he said gently,  _ How often do we have to repeat ourselves to you?  _ He had raised an eyebrow as if waiting for her to try to refute it.

Arya had frowned and then looked away. She knew he was right and that she did at times forget to follow rules or instructions she had been given, but that was different. That was for boring and stupid things. She could do it for this. 

_ If you can’t follow a simple rule, Arya, how can I trust you in a battle?  _ He had a sad smile, he once more had been able to read her and knew how she was going to respond.  _ Dacey has trained you well, Arya.  _ There was nothing but pride in his voice and Arya’s chest had swelled,  _ but there is more to battles than fighting. There is discipline. You do not have it.  _ He hugged her and she didn’t fight it. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and felt the wetness in her eyes. 

He was leaving and she couldn’t come with him. She wasn’t sure when she’d see him again. He was going to be the lone wolf. When she thought about that and then her father’s warning it felt as if icy water had been poured into her heart. 

_ I don’t have to fight,  _ she mumbled into his tunic,  _ I promise, I won’t. I’ll listen too. Please.  _

_ I’m sorry, Arya.  _

The wetness was on her cheeks now. Robb’s blue eyes seemed to glisten, but he gave her a small smile. 

_ Mayhaps, one day,  _ he had offered,  _ but it’ll be you asking mother and father.  _

Arya knew their answer, so she scrubbed at her eyes. Even if she couldn’t be allowed to fight it had meant so much for her to hear her brother’s pride and confidence in her ability. She had trained so hard and it had always been Jon and then Robb who had encouraged her. She still had Jon, but Robb was leaving. 

_ Jon has Dacey now, but what about Robb?  _ That made her hug him again. 

_ Give my regards to Domeric and Sansa,  _ he told her,  _ Who knows Arya, the next time we see each other Jon and Dacey could have their family name and we may have a niece or nephew back at Winterfell. _

That would be long, too long for Arya’s belly to take. 

Harrenhal didn’t seem as exciting now. She had explored as many corridors and rooms as she could as well as the large godswood. Alone or with Nymeria or Lyanna or even Princess Shireen, but she didn’t want them to call her princess. That was fine with Arya, because she always forgot to. 

It wasn’t the same now. Before when she had explored, Robb would be here and even when busy he’d listen to her stories and smile and ask what she found or discovered that day. He didn’t seem to mind that she was dirty and dressed in boy’s tunics and trousers. She had later learned the Queen had ordered Robb to inform Arya that she had to wear proper dresses if she was going to interact with the Princess Shireen. He never did. Thankfully, she, Shireen, and Lyanna were good at sneaking because her mother never found out that they still saw each other. 

Jon was gone too. He had left Harrenhal riding out to oversee a few tasks and when he returned it would be time for them to leave. She’d accompany Jon and Dacey when they marched north, but once they reached Moat Cailin they’d move west to the coast, Arya would continue going north. She did want to see Sansa and Domeric again, but she didn’t want to see  _ him. _

_ He shouldn’t be allowed at Winterfell.  _ She had been angry. She didn’t want him at her home. She didn’t want to see his stupid face and be reminded that she might have to marry him. 

_ I don’t want to be a Frey.  _

A thud caused her to look up to see her feet had carried her through the training yard to one of the areas where the archery targets were put up. There was only one person there. It was Theon. 

He looked over his shoulder at her, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing another arrow and redrawing his bow. “I expected you’d come here.” 

She didn’t understand. “What do you mean?” 

Theon gestured with his head and Arya followed to see Nymeria lying not a few feet away from him on the ground, muddy, but comfortable. 

“I lost an arrow because of her,” He grumbled, but there wasn’t any real annoyance in his tone. “She startled me and I-” 

Arya started laughing and Theon mumbled something, but took out his frustration on the target and got another well aimed hit in the center ring. 

“You shouldn’t be scared of Nymeria,” Arya wanted him to know that. 

“I wasn’t,” Theon bristled as if offended by the mere thought. “I was startled because I wasn’t expecting her.” He said it slowly like Arya was as dim as Hodor. 

She slapped his arm in response which made him drop the arrow he was trying to draw. 

He protested, but she could see he was smiling before he turned away from her to focus. “Your direwolf is better behaved than you.” 

That made her think of Colmar. And the look he’d give her, it wasn’t the hastily pretend smile, but the first look she saw from him when their eyes would meet. _ Disappointed, and disgusted,  _ She couldn’t smile now. She sniffled. She was afraid Theon had heard because he hesitated but then maybe she imagined it because he went through and let loose the arrow. 

“Theon,” she didn’t like how her voice suddenly sounded. It was fragile like glass, but she wasn’t glass. She was iron. “Would you ask me to change?”

He looked confused, but then turned away. “No,” he finally said after a quiet pause between them. She thought she saw his shoulders slump, “It’s not worth the headache,” He turned back to her, his eyes conveying it was a jest, and then Theon smiled at her. 

It wasn’t one of his stupid smirks.  _ No, it looked different, _ she thought,  _ it felt different,  _ but she ignored that. Instead, she made her way over and grabbed one of the discarded bows. 

Theon looked at her for a second like he was going to say something. In that long heartbeat she feared he may try to dismiss her. He didn’t. He just moved his quiver of arrows so that she could now reach them. 

Arya knew that if she was Colmar’s wife or some other stupid lord’s wife she probably wouldn’t be allowed to do something as simple as stand in the training yard let alone participate. No, she’d be doing stupid things and forbidden to leave the castle in case her pretty dress got dirty.

_ It wasn’t fair.  _ She knew Robb was right and his words made sense about their future betrothals but still... 

Theon didn’t complain about her dirty trousers or wanting to fight. He had said it himself that he wouldn’t ask her to change. 

Arya bit her lip, and that weird, but warm feeling returned to her belly. She pushed it away. “Theon?”

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks.”

“Uh huh,” He sounded indifferent.

It didn’t fool her. She grabbed an arrow and notched it to her bow. “I bet I can beat you.”

“Very well,” he turned to give her a mocking flourish, “ladies first.” 

“Stupid,” She said over his laughter, but she was laughing now too. 

For the first time since Robb left Harrenhal, Arya was happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Dacey gave Jon Longclaw in OBAS but that was still under the idea that they’d rule Bear Island, now that they’re not, Jon tried to give it back. I thought it could be interesting that Jorah’s misdeeds made House Mormont look differently on how the sword should be used. They reevaluated and I like to think it works for this AU. Is the idea flawed? Yes. Could it lead to problems? Yes. 
> 
> Jon’s armor looking the way it does is just a wonderful and happy accident. They made it in a way so it couldn’t resemble fish scales to avoid insulting House Tully and then voila- Jon get’s great armor with Dacey trying not to grin too much at what it actually looks like-red dragon scales.
> 
> I took liberties in writing/describing Harrenhal so don’t be too upset. 
> 
> I can now safely say we’ll be getting our first Kevan Lannister perspective in the next chapter. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With everything going on right now please don’t forget to: Be smart and stay safe.
> 
> To those who are still having to go out there to work during all of this you have my utmost gratitude and admiration for what you’re risking & sacrificing. Please, be safe.

**Sam:**

_I’m leaving._

Lord Commander Mormont was sending him to Winterfell.

Sam still couldn’t believe it. In the last few weeks he had just begun to like Castle Black, and his duties as a steward. True, he did not have friends, but his brothers were nicer to him now. 

_By ignoring me._ Sam did not let that bother him while he continued to pack up his things. 

Commander Mormont told Sam that Domeric and Sansa Bolton were hosting the Harvest Feast at Winterfell and that the northern nobility that wasn’t fighting in the south would be there.

 _‘We need them, Tarly.’_ Lord Commander’s grouse tone always made Sam want to flinch.

 _It’s too much like Father’s._ He hadn’t then.

 _‘Me?’_ It came out more as a squeak then he would’ve liked. ‘ _Why not Benjen Stark?’_ He thought him the better choice, he was a Stark and Lady Sansa’s uncle. 

_Who am I? I’m just Sam, a newly made Brother of the Night’s Watch._

_‘Benjen is going north of the wall to do some scouting,’_ Lord Commander informed him gruffly. ‘ _You were raised in the Reach with southern nobility,’_ he told him, ‘ _I can’t send some raper or thief. We need to show that there's still good noblemen in the Watch still.’_

Sam smiled. _It wasn’t much,_ but it was deafening praise coming from Mormont. ‘ _I understand, Lord Commander.’_ He had stood straight and proud like father used to make him stand when he’d host visiting Reach lords at Horn Hill.

 _‘Do not slouch,’_ he’d snap, ‘ _We don’t need the lords seeing your sagging belly.’_

Sam stuffed one of his black tunics into his bag, trying to forget about his father. 

Mormont had looked him over. ‘ _You’ll stay at Winterfell as long as they’ll have you. You need to speak on our behalf not just to them, but all the nobility gathered. The wildling army is coming and the Watch needs men, supplies, help.’_

Lord Commander Mormont had thought a crow’s presence at Winterfell would ensure that they wouldn’t be forgotten or ignored back at the Wall. It’s easy to discard or ignore a letter but for Sam to be there, he’d be a constant reminder to the Watch and the help they’d need. Sam saw some sense in it, he’d be an envoy for the Night’s Watch. 

_‘The Starks are friends of the Watch.’_ Lord Commander Mormont was confident in his belief that Sam’s stay would be welcomed and long. 

Sam had thought to point out that the Starks were not at Winterfell. It was the Boltons, but decided against it. 

_The flayed man,_ Sam shivered. He had studied the different families and their standards back at Horn Hill. He much preferred reading in a cozy seat then being hit repeatedly by a blunted sword from whatever frustrated Master-At-Arms his father could find. 

_‘Books,’_ His father sneered, ‘ _Is it a bloody book on our standard?’_ He’d demand. ‘ _No, it’s a hunter.’_ He pulled the book from Sam’s trembling grasp. “ _Our words are ‘First in Battle,’”_ he poked Sam’s chest hard with his finger. 

_‘Yes, father,’_ He’d dutifully say. He'd try not to cry because that would only send him into a darker rage. 

Sam sighed. _I’m a Brother of the Night’s Watch._ He reminded himself, and they were reassuring words. Maester Aemon had even said _I was a good steward._ He wasn’t used to such compliments. 

It hadn’t been hard for Sam to figure out who Maester Aemon was. The name alone stood out, and then Sam read up on how Aegon the Unlikely’s brother went to the Wall to fully insure the security of his brother’s reign and his illegitimacy for it, taking oaths first as a maester and then as a Brother of the Night’s Watch. They were both older brothers who stepped aside to let their younger brothers rule. Aemon had done so graciously. He had taken the Black to insure his brother's reign would be secured. Sam had taken the Black on his father's insistence, _his threats._

_‘My father served the Targaryens,’_ he had told him after he figured it out. 

_‘We don’t have fathers anymore, Sam, only brothers.’_ Aemon had given him a small, but sad smile. ‘ _And we serve the Night’s Watch.’_

Sam was going to miss Maester Aemon. He was one of the few who were nice to him and he always had time to listen or talk to him. He had already said his goodbyes to him, knowing he shouldn’t be out in this sort of cold weather for too long if it could be helped. 

Aemon had instructed him to write to him and also to look into the Stark’s library. He had said it boasted an impressive collection of old tomes. 

Sam had happily agreed. He had already found so many old and interesting books in the Castle Black library. He could not wait to see which ones he’d find at Winterfell. He had asked Maester Aemon if he could bring some of the books with him so he could finish. Maester Aemon had told him if anyone else had asked, he’d say no, but he trusted Sam. 

He only wished the maester could’ve seen Sam’s smile at that. 

* * *

It was a small retinue accompanying Sam to Winterfell with only two Brothers, who’d return to Castle Black afterwards. They were supposed to travel by horses, but Sam suggested they use a wagon. Lord Commander Mormont had been suspicious of the request, and saw it as Sam being lazy. So he explained that if they brought a mostly empty wagon to Winterfell when the two Brothers would depart back to Castle Black, the Boltons may feel obliged to give and pack what supplies they could to return with. 

Lord Commander had then chuckled and agreed to it.

The wagon looked to have seen better days when Sam approached it. The canvas was worn, black, and dirty. The wood was old and looked rickety, but Sam tried not to look too closely. He put his last bag into the back of the wagon, and was about to climb in when a voice stopped him. Surprised, Sam stumbled, but thankfully caught himself. He didn’t need his Brothers to see him fall on his face. 

_They’re counting on me,_ Sam knew it, and he couldn’t let them down. He did see Ser Alliser in the crowd and he was smirking, but he didn’t look at him too long. _He can’t bother me anymore._

Sam turned to where he heard the voice. 

It was Maester Aemon. He was bundled up tight and thick in black robes and furs. He looked wider than Sam ever saw him. The maester was using both his blackthorn cane and Clydas, one of his stewards to help support him. Clydas was nearing sixty or the age itself, but next to Aemon, he almost looked young. 

Sam hurried over to him. “Maester Aemon,” he was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. “You should be inside.”

“Should I?” His milky white eyes were on Sam. The way they looked at him, Sam sometimes wondered if the maester really was blind. His gaze looked just as sharp even with dim eyes. 

“I wanted to see you off, Sam,” He said simply, smiling.

“You already did,” Sam reminded him, while quietly touched that he saw the need to see him again. _Father, couldn’t wait to be rid of me._

“Is there a rule that I cannot do so twice?” His soft voice carried a hint of amusement.

Sam chuckled. “No, maester,” He stepped forward closer when beckoned by Aemon. 

“The Watch is depending on you, Sam,” He gently reminded him. His pale, wrinkled hand reached out and touched Sam’s cloak. “Remember your vows while at Winterfell,” He cautioned, “The Gods see fit to test us all.”

Sam shook his head, before stopping, realizing such a gesture was useless. “I won’t.” He hoped his voice was enough to convey that Aemon could count on him. “I’ll bring help to the Watch, before the wildlings come. I promise.”

His links rattled in the breeze. Aemon nodded, looking to believe him. “Then this is not truly goodbye, Sam,” He smiled. 

“No, Maester Aemon,” Sam agreed, “It isn’t.”

* * *

**Kevan:**

He was ready to call an end to the small council meeting when the doors opened abruptly to show a hurried servant dressed in Lannister colors. He gave a quick bow and moved over to him, holding two letters. 

Kevan frowned, but took them. He felt the eyes of those around the table on him. He was the acting Hand for his brother once more. Tywin had gone out of the city to prepare it for the siege, having moats dug and earth walls put up, and other sorts of traps to slow down Renly’s approach. Fighting had broken out several times around the Kingswood between the two sides. The skirmishes were small, but they felt the loss more than Renly’s army. Everyone lost outside of the city meant they could not help defend it, where their presence was worth much more for them. 

He opened the first letter, read it and then reread it, when he couldn’t believe its contents. He felt his grip around it tighten and he was sure his expression betrayed his surprise. 

“Uncle?” Tyrion’s voice got him to look up. 

Kevan cleared his throat, and put the first letter down. His mind was still going over and over the brief, but devastating message that it contained. 

He looked around the small council table, Tyrion sat to one side of him, acting as Master of Laws and doing it well. Varys, the Master of Whisperers, sat beside him, his hands were tucked into the folds of his robes, giving Kevan a look of curiosity that didn’t truly look genuine. Grand Maester Pycelle looked affronted that he was not given the messages first. Petyr Baelish’s smile was bland, while his eyes kept his thoughts well concealed. He raised an eyebrow when their eyes met, and then to Kevan’s other side sat his niece, the Queen.

“Antlers has fallen to Stannis Baratheon,” Kevan’s words were met with stunned silence.

“Impossible,” Tyrion gaped from where he sat, “Neither him nor Lord Stark seem the kind of men to break their word.”

“I told you not to trust them,” Cersei told the table. “I knew the wolves would come, and I was right.” A look of satisfaction came over her while her eyes showed she was savoring her triumph. 

“Savages,” Pycelle dismissed with a shake of his head, “led by heretics who follow a Red Witch.”

“A stag taking Antlers,” Petyr Baelish smirked. “And I thought Stannis without a sense of humor.”

Kevan saw that the second letter had a broken Lannister seal. He opened it, and he felt his anger rising with each word he took in. “The Starks did not break the truce,” He nearly crumpled the letter in his hand, looking up to see her smug expression. “You broke it.” His voice was soft, but the anger beneath it made it come out hot and harsh. “You broke the truce,” He said louder, waving the letter. 

She paled slightly at the accusation before she rallied. “What nonsense is this?”

Her lies and arrogant tone only fanned his anger. “You gave Amory Lorch permission to go into the Riverlands,” He showed them the letter so that everyone at the table could see her signature, and her seal that had been used.

“Out,” He suddenly ordered the small council, “Everyone save for Tyrion and my niece.” He turned to them to ensure they understood that he was not of a mind for his patience to be tested. 

Varys slipped from his seat and bobbed his head. His expression carefully put together to convey his dismay at what had befallen Kevan’s family. 

The old maester blustered about being of service, but seemed to take the hint from Kevan’s silence. He still left very slowly. Kevan was certain his limp was being exaggerated to get him to change his mind and let the old man sit and rest. _It did not work._

Petyr’s expression was of pity and sympathy. He looked sincerely distraught at this new information. It was nearly convincing as he quietly and quickly left. Pycelle was the last to leave, not giving up his hope that he’d be asked to stay until he reached the doors. When the door finally closed behind the maester, Kevan turned to her.

“You impress me, Cersei.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” He replied bluntly. “Just when I believe you have exhausted yourself of foolish choices you go and make newer and bigger ones.” He tossed the letter onto the table in disgust. From the corner of his vision he saw Tyrion reach across the table to grab it with some difficulty due to his stature. 

“You gave the seat of Harrenhal to the corrupt captain of the gold cloaks. A man who just went through this city killing children,” Kevan began to list them, “And they were on your orders!” He sent this Janos Slynt to the Wall, let the north have him with the rest of the rapers and thieves. _The fool didn’t want to go until Kevan offered to introduce him to the headsman instead of the brothers in black._

“You allow Ser Barristan to be dismissed from the kingsguard,” He said incredulously, “I almost have to believe you're a spy, working against this family because how can you make those choices and still believe you are somehow helping the Lannister name?” He raised a finger to her in warning, “This is what you call counsel? I call it madness and stupidity.”

“I struck first,” She raised her chin at him, “If Lorch wasn’t so incompetent it would’ve worked to our advantage,” She remained unrepentant in her actions and had the gall to think she was not to blame.

“Thinking you are clever is not the same as actually _being_ clever,” Kevan saw Tyrion’s face crease into his own amused smile. 

“Our castles bordering the Riverlands are scarcely defended,” His tone was anything but calm while he continued to grapple with his fury towards _the Queen._

 _And what a Queen she was,_ he wanted to sneer.

“We emptied the castles to pull all of our men back in an effort to defend this city. We needed every man to fight Renly,” He told her. “We knew the Starks would honor their word, and we would put them back when the truce was set to expire. Now you’ve given them cause and all but invited them into the Crownlands and Westerlands,” He shook his head. “If they’re able to take the Golden Tooth they can march on the Rock with little standing in their way.” 

The only army standing between and the Golden Tooth was the one that his cousin Stafford Lannister had raised, but it was in the northern part of the Reach marching on Old Oak. There they were raiding and burning everything in their path to try to delay Renly or to get him to split his army to send men to stop them. 

“The Rock has never fallen.” She would not back down. 

“It’s never had to face a threat as great as your stupidity and arrogance before,” Kevan shot back. 

“Uncle,” Cersei persisted even now. “I am the Queen.”

She believed she was without blame but it was intellect she was without. 

“Perhaps there is another role you can serve in Court besides Queen, my dear niece,” Kevan pondered, “Yes, instead of wearing silk gowns you should be wearing motley and Moon Boy can wear the dresses. After all, he’s given Robert as many sons as you have.” 

She was indignant and her cheeks were red. Whatever vain, foolish bluster she was about to give he cut it off sharply. “Guards,” He called for his men who were outside. They came in quickly. “Take the Queen to her chambers and ensure she stays there until I call upon her.”

“Uncle!” She protested, “You can give no such order!” Her words dripping with venom, she stood from her seat and pointed an angry finger towards him. “Escort my Uncle back to his chambers.” 

To Kevan’s satisfaction his guards never hesitated in taking her into custody. “Let go of me!” They did, but they ushered her out of the chambers, stoic to her outbursts and curses. She looked back with eyes burning with hatred before she was unceremoniously pushed out of the room. 

Only when she was gone did Tyrion laugh. “Oh, Uncle, forget about giving me a name day gift. This was it.”

“Tyrion,” Kevan warned his nephew. He was not in the mood for his humor. 

“Forgive me, Uncle,” He bowed his head, “It isn’t every day where your dream is realized.”

“Is your dream the complete destruction of our house?” He asked tartly. 

That got Tyrion’s smile to vanish. “It isn’t, Uncle.”

“Because of your sister’s foolishness, we must change some of our plans.” 

These were matters he had discussed with his brother before he departed. They did not leave on the best of terms. The memory of his brother’s cold anger and colder dismissal had stayed with him long after their conversation. _No, their argument._

Kevan knew he was being left behind as punishment. 

_He would not listen,_ he lamented, _He would not see it._ It was frustrating, but a part of him knew his brother would refuse to acknowledge it even coming from him, but Kevan had to say it. 

“You are to leave at first light,” Kevan pushed it aside. “You are to carefully ride through the Reach to return to Casterly Rock at once. You may take the Gold Road for part of it, but I would not advise taking it the entire trip,” He did not trust the Riverlands, while Renly had emptied much of the Reach to march on the capital. He hoped Tyrion and a small retinue could move through quickly enough not to be detected. 

“I will send word to Stafford to have his army turn around and retreat back into the Westerlands,” Kevan prayed raven or rider that the message could get there in time before any invading army could secure a foothold in their lands. “We need the army back to protect the Rock and Lannisport.”

Tyrion gave a sober nod, “Do you think it could fall?”

Kevan frowned. Even at the lowest depths of his father’s failures, he never would have thought or considered the Rock capable of being taken by an enemy, but now, he paused. And that alone was a condemnation of their chances. 

“I do not,” He finally said, he believed it, but his confidence was shaken. “You will not be traveling alone. You will go with Princess Myrcella.” She has suffered enough, she never should’ve been brought back to this city. “You will take Horas and Hobber Redwyne with you to the Rock.” He would not give up such valuable hostages. If the capital was to fall, keeping Lord Redwyne’s sons as hostages would be needed to help with potential negotiations and to ensure the Redwyne fleet could not move against the Rock. 

“I understand,” Tyrion agreed, “What of you, Uncle?” 

“I will stay,” Kevan saw no other choice for him nor would he take one. _Tywin has never led me to defeat._ A city is no easy thing to take and his brother has spent weeks shoring up its defenses and preparing for Renly’s army. 

_I fight for Casterly Rock. I fight for the Lannister name. I fight for Tywin. I am his man until the end._

It was Tywin who he fought with in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was Tywin who led them to victory over the Reynes and Tarbecks. It was his brother who restored glory to the Lannister name and brought back its might and demand for respect. _What has Renly done? What has Renly won?_

“I shall see to your instructions.”

“Tyrion,” Kevan stopped him from leaving. They had more to discuss. None of it easy, “You understand your responsibility? We are trusting you with the Rock, Tyrion. Our families,” He thought about his dear Dorna and his beloved Janei. _Will I see them again?_ He tried to push the question away. There was no room for doubt when one was defending. 

“The legacy of the Lannisters,” Kevan continued, “It is being put in your hands. Do you understand?”

“I do, Uncle,” He said slowly. His short stature seemed to straighten up with determination.

It was a reassuring sight for Kevan. “I will caution you that in order to protect it, you may need to surrender it. As well as Tommen and Myrcella.” 

He looked taken aback by the suggestion, “Stannis or Renly will surely-”

“I know,” Kevan stopped him, he did not want to think about such fates towards two innocents. 

_Their parents have damned them. Damn them!_

“That is why you must be vigilant for the right opportunity if it presents itself.”

“Right opportunity?”

“Yes, Renly is marching on the capital, Stannis is in the Crownlands,” Kevan listed off their enemies and their encroaching position, “But what about the Starks? If you could surrender into their custody,” Kevan let the suggestion float in the air between them. He knew that Lord Stark would protect Tommen and Myrcella from being executed.

The problem was that he didn’t know where the Starks were, but Kevan thought if Robb Stark was at Antlers with Stannis then he or his giant wolf would’ve been spotted. Perhaps, it is only Lord Stark with Stannis’ army, or maybe the Starks were somewhere else. They could be in the Riverlands or on the move. If they’re on the move… Kevan knew where they would be marching. 

“The Lannister name must survive after this war, Tyrion,” Kevan implored him, “Our hold on the Rock must remain.”

Tyrion’s expression was grim, and his mismatched eyes were difficult to read. “What of Tommen?” 

“Do not raise our banner for Tommen.” Kevan suddenly felt so old and weary. “He can take vows to become a maester, or a septon or a member of the Night’s Watch, but he’ll live, Tyrion. I want him to live. You try to put a crown on his head neither Renly nor Stannis will feel any guilt upon removing it and his head,” Kevan felt the pang in his chest at having to think of such a brutal end for a boy who didn’t deserve it. “Let him live a long and happy life,” 

Tyrion’s face betrayed his own anguish upon thinking of the potential demise of their niece and nephew. “I will think on your words, Uncle,” he cleared his throat, “And of my father?”

“You know him well enough to know our fate _if_ we lose the city,” Kevan said solemnly. 

_I fought all my life for House Lannister to die for it will be just as great as an honor._

However, it was not an honor he would not allow his sons to share. They had lives to live, women to marry, sons to father.

Kevan leaned back into his seat and sighed. 

_In defeat or victory,_ he prayed, _Please, let the Lannister name live on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is implied that Kevan knew the truth about the kids' parentage, but he still fought for them as well as having no qualms in serving under Joffrey and Tommen. I don’t see it changing here either, because I think his first loyalty has and will always be to his brother, Tywin. 
> 
> I’m sorry to those who wanted to see Kevan tell Tywin on page about Jaime and Cersei, but I just didn’t see him waiting so long. I think even coming from Kevan, Tywin would not want to see it, because he couldn’t afford to due to what it would mean to his legacy. Tywin’s obsession with his family’s legacy has blinded him to the sins and flaws of his family. 
> 
> You can respectfully disagree with these takes, but I hope at the very least you can understand why I went the way that I did. I’m trying the best I can to predict and then apply these AU changes in a very complex world filled with such a diverse and deep cast of characters. 
> 
> Thanks to all those who took the time to comment. Your support means a lot to me. 
> 
> Thanks for your time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With everything going on right now please don't forget to: Be smart and stay safe. To those who are still having to go out there to work during all of this you have my utmost gratitude and admiration for what you're risking & sacrificing.

**Myrcella:**

_I’m leaving._

This wasn’t a dream. Her nightmare was over. She was leaving the capital. 

_May I never have to come back,_ she hoped, she thought about praying for it too, but she didn’t. _Why would the Seven help me? I’m just a bastard._ She remembered what the Seven taught her about them. 

_About us._ She corrected, _treacherous and wicked._

 _They’re right,_ she thought shamefully, _The Seven Kingdoms were at war because of us._

She would not cry. She could not. She tried to push those thoughts away by focusing on her room. _Did I pack what I need?_ The question proved a welcomed distraction. She could not take everything because Uncle Tyrion wanted them to move quickly through the Crownlands and Reach.

 _We will not be safe until we’re in the Westerlands._ She remembered him saying, but she also remembered the look in his eyes as if he wanted to add, _We may not be safe there too._

 _I don’t care._ She’d rather face the enemies of the Reach then stay any longer a captive of her mother and a victim of her brother. 

“Princess,” Uncle Tyrion’s voice had her turn to see him in the doorway. 

_You’re no Princess._ Lord Stark’s voice was cold as winter. 

“Uncle,” She smiled, hoping it would shield her perceptive Uncle from her thoughts. She didn’t think she was successful. “Is everything ready?” 

“It is,” Uncle Tyrion was merciful enough not to pry. 

_At least I still have him,_ She had lost a father, two uncles, and a cousin. Myrcella could barely even look at the standard now. Everytime she tried, it felt as if the crowned stag was looking down at her in judgment, _You’re no blood of mine._ It sounded like father.

 _He’s not your father._ Lord Stark’s words cut through her like a knife. 

“Then may we leave?” She felt the tears trying to pool in her eyes, but she would not let them. 

Her Uncle gave her a sympathetic look, “Of course,” He gestured to himself. “That is why I’m here. I need my charming niece to escort me.” He smiled. 

Myrcella returned it. When she was younger her uncle had scared her. She couldn’t understand how she could be related to him. He looked so different, so strange, and Mother had made sure Myrcella knew her own thoughts about her younger dwarf brother. Mother thought ugly meant cruel, but Joffrey was _considered_ handsome, and Myrcella hadn’t met a crueler person then him. _Not that Mother would ever see it. Her precious Joffrey can do no wrong._

Uncle Tyrion had always been kind and helpful to her. Myrcella was not sure how she’d be able to cope these past few weeks without him and his support. He always knew how to make her smile and visited her to make sure she wouldn’t stay in her room to brood or sob. She still did, but it was happening less and less because of him. 

“Uncle,” She stopped in front of him. “Thank you,” and before he could reply let alone react she was hugging him. She was afraid she may topple him over because of how fast she moved to embrace him, but he didn’t. She needed to crouch because of his small size, but it was an easy burden to bear.

“You have a good heart, princess.” He told her softly. “Your mother can never take that away from you.” He patted her back, “ _Never._ ”

She leaned back to face him, afraid of the tears that may slip down her cheeks. Myrcella nodded so he knew that she heard and understood him. She then kissed his cheek. 

“Good,” He couldn’t hide the fleeting surprise that she caused him. He cleared his throat. “A kiss from a princess,” He said dramatically, “You’ve made this dwarf the envy of every knight in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

She smiled. _You are no princess._ Lord Stark’s words were a cold and harsh wind that brushed away her smile. _The Seven Kingdoms know what you are. The Seven know what you are._

“There you are.” 

_No,_ she felt her heart’s frantic beating, like an animal trapped inside her chest. _No._

Walking to stop them was her mother, she was dressed in gold and crimson. She had nearly as much metalwork in her dress as cloth. Her arms were covered with separate scales of crimson plate. The edges were golden trimmed. There were rubies encrusted both in some of the metal, but also woven into the fabric, emeralds too. 

She wasn’t alone. Garbed head to toe in white, was her uncle. 

_No, my father._ Her stomach protesting the truth that still made her nauseous. Just the sight of the two of them together had her fearful that she may get sick. _Brother and sister,_ her stomach rumbled, she kept her gaze constantly flickering so it wouldn’t linger on either of them. 

“Sister, brother,” Tyrion greeted them warmly, “Come to say goodbye to your favorite brother?”

Mother’s lip curled at him. Her green eyes looked down at him with loathing like he was a troublesome insect and she was about to lift her boot to step on him. “You can not leave soon enough.” She then turned to Myrcella, her face softening, a smile on her lips. “However, Myrcella will not be going with you.” She tried to take her hands, but Myrcella recoiled as if her mother’s hands were made of flame instead of flesh. “You belong with your mother.”

She felt herself shaking. The fear was wrapping itself around her like an icy rope. 

“Don’t be foolish, Myrcella,” She chided her. Her tone was light, but her look had hardened, “You can not be taken from me.”

“What?” Her uncle couldn’t hide his surprise. “What nonsense is this, _sweet sister?”_

“It isn’t nonsense,” Cersei sniffed, still not looking at her youngest brother. “It’s a Mother’s duty to protect her children.” 

_It was too much._ She felt as if a fire had suddenly been lit within her. It burned away all her doubt, all her etiquette, the polite princess role she was taught to emulate melted away like snow in summer. Prim and proper, demure and smile, she shed them, one after another they were put into the flames. 

“No,” She said it so quietly she didn’t think they heard her. “No,” she said it again, surprised by the happy thrum that went through her upon seeing her mother react to it. Myrcella felt stronger then she ever felt before. _You cannot drag me down anymore. I am free of you._ The fire continued to rage, consuming all her bitterness as if it was kindling. 

“Myrcella,” It was _his_ voice, “Don’t you think its better to stay with your mother?”

The last shackles of her restraint crumbled to ash. She felt the roar of defiance that ripped through her. “NO!” 

She moved to him in two steps. He took a step back, surprised, but she would not let him retreat. 

“I used to defend you. I used to stop those who called you _Kingslayer._ ” She told him, “I used to say you killed a bad man. You stopped a king who was killing innocent people. You were being good, not selfish.” Myrcella felt no tears on her cheeks. No, her face was warm from the anger that continued to spread through her like magma. 

“But now, but now I know what a fool I was,” She laughed. It did not sound melodic like a princess’ laughter was supposed to be. It was ugly and cruel. “You’ve earned every curse, every insult, every glare that any person has given you!” Her hands began to pound on his chest plate. 

“I HATE YOU!” She roared, slamming her hand into his armor like they were hammers. “I hate you!” She said it again, Her palms stung, but she ignored it. “I hate you!” 

“I will not waste a single tear on either of you! If you are to die I will not wear even a scrap of black. I have nothing to mourn.” Her hands again and again slapped the armor falling into an unexpected rhythm with her rage. “You took everything from me!” 

“I hate you now and I will hate you forever!” 

She was huffing nearly out of breath. The anger was receding. She saw her reflection in his chestplate. Her face was red. Her green eyes were burning. Her hair was unruly, falling around her face. 

_Ours is the fury._ She hoped he’d be proud of her. She felt like a Baratheon in that moment. That storm, that intense rage. _This will be as close as I’ll ever be again to them, to him._

She took a step back. It was deathly silent. Her breath was still uneven and her heart was only beginning to calm itself, but it still felt like a horse winding down after a long gallop. 

He was looking at her like he had never seen her before. His smirk had faded, barely staying in place. 

She turned away from him. She had no more words for him. _Not now. Not ever._ Myrcella’s eyes found her other uncle who was looking at her with mild surprise. He eventually tipped his head to her, “Well, there you have it,” His words seemed to snap everyone else out of the stupor, “The princess has politely declined your _lovely_ invitation for her to stay.” He held out his hand for her to take which she did. 

“You have no authority here, brother.” She could hear the sneer in her mother’s voice. 

“No, but I do,” Uncle Kevan stood with more than a dozen Lannister guards. He spared her a smile before he turned to her mother and _him_. The look shifted in an instant, “Tyrion and Myrcella are leaving. The rest are waiting for them.” He turned back to the two of them, “Come along,” He gestured for them to join him. 

They did. She held her uncle’s hand tightly afraid they’d try to reach out and grab her. Uncle Tyrion never protested.

“Uncle,” Mother’s voice was sharp like a whip lashing forward trying to ensnare Myrcella to force her to stay.

Uncle Kevan sighed. “Whatever thought or scheme you have in that empty head of yours which you perceive as brilliant is anything but,” He said bluntly, “So please spare us the embarrassment and stay quiet,” He waved his hand in her direction like she was a pest and not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Myrcella didn’t look back at either of them. She followed her uncles out of the corridor where they were leading her to her freedom. 

“Princess,” Arys greeted her. “My apologies,” He was shaking his head in shame. “Lord Commander Jaime-”

“Yes,” Uncle Kevan stopped him, “You were right to come to me, Ser Arys.”

That didn’t ease the guilt out of his expression. “Princess-”

“No,” She put her hands around his armored gauntlet, “You’re my protector, Ser Arys, now and always,” she found her voice beginning to strain as the truth and guilt threatened to crush her like a boulder. “If you wish.”

“I do, Princess,” He said without hesitation. He bowed his head. “I can think of no greater honor than serving as your sworn shield.”

Myrcella felt the relief wash over her. It did not last. 

_Honor._ A cold voice echoed within her. It then scoffed. _A knight of the kingsguard protecting a bastard who thinks she’s a princess? Where is the honor in this?_

She did not find the words to argue because there were none. It was right. Myrcella’s shame would be Arys’. His white cloak was being soiled by staying with her. “Arys,” She began, her hands were stinging _. I must let you go._

“No, Princess,” he stopped her. “I serve as _your_ knight.” 

Her throat swelled. “Thank you,” she pushed the words out thickly. “Thank you.” 

They had arrived in the courtyard where the horses and wagon were waiting. Uncle Tyrion had already said that his mountain clansmen would be waiting for them outside the city. _“Apparently, they have not grown fond of the smell of shit and piss.”_ He had said in feigning dismay. 

“You should hurry,” Uncle Kevan had stopped while they went forward to get to their horses. “May your journey be swift and safe.” 

“Uncle?” Myrcella couldn’t leave. Not yet. Her fingers were still red and sore when she took it out. “I-I it is not much,” she apologized, “But,” the words stumbled out of her mouth like she was a drunkard instead of a princess. _I am neither._

He looked down at what she was offering. It was red silk with golden trim, with a small golden lion’s head stitched into the center of it. He put his hand over hers to take it. “Your favor?”

“Yes,” She mumbled, “I am sorry,” She realized it was a mistake. It was not her place. It was for his children and his wife to give not a niece, not a bastard.

Uncle Kevan took it gently out of her hand. He held it up to examine it and smiled. 

“A token of my thanks, Uncle. You’ve done so much for me. You protected me. You helped me. And I am grateful,” she was trying her best not to stutter, to remain poised, but it was so difficult. Everything was cracking inside her like breaking glass. “I am sorry that I have nothing better to give.” 

“This,” he wrapped his fingers around it, “Is a gift I will treasure, Princess.” He bent down and kissed her forehead, “But now, you need to leave.” 

She hugged him. She felt the fear constrict around her heart. The whispers in her head that she’d never see him again. “Goodbye, Uncle,” She looked down when she felt the tear dribble down her cheek. 

“Princess,” He called back to her when she was on her horse. 

Myrcella turned to see he had tied her favor around his wrist. He waved to her, the red silk swishing below. That was the last thing she saw when she rode out of the Red Keep. She prayed it would not be the last time she saw him. 

* * *

**Ned:**

It smelled like fish.

Ned sat in the loft of a small warehouse nestled on one of the docks at Gulltown. At this height, all the different odors were able to waft upwards, and none of them were pleasant. 

The loft was smaller than his solar back at Winterfell. There was a straw mattress tucked in one corner. The blankets were dirty and tattered, and there was no pillow. Instead of tables there were barrels. Instead of chairs there were only stools, three legged and wobbly. 

So Ned made due with the musty mattress. He leaned up against the wall, but was careful not to aggravate his wound when he adjusted his leg. 

It had all been arranged by Ser Davos. The former smuggler still had friends in every port. Ned had been left alone with Davos going to get them food and he sent his new squire, Cley Cerwyn into the city to make contact with Mychel Redfort, who would escort them to his family’s castle. There, Ned hoped the beginnings of an alliance between the Vale and the forces of the north and Riverlands could be made under King Stannis’ banner. 

Despite his new accomodations smelling like fish guts, Ned was content with the rest. His time at sea had not been troublesome, but he preferred his feet on solid ground. Even though he hadn’t seen much of the city before being taken into this old warehouse, he noticed enough to see how much Gulltown had grown. The streets were busier, the crowds were larger, and the noises of it all were louder from when he used to visit as a young man with Robert and Lord Arryn. 

_Now, they are gone,_ he mourned them. _They had been victims of Lannister greed and ambition._

He sighed. _In the end I could not save Robert from himself._ He missed his friend despite what the city and the crown turned him into. Ned had seen far too few glimpses of the charismatic and charming Robert Baratheon he remembered and respected from their youth during his time as his friend’s Hand. Robert may have gotten fatter, but Ned saw beneath it the hollow ache that his friend could never fill not with his wife, not with ale, nor food nor whores. It only grew in time and as it did so too did Robert’s misery. 

_Oh Robert,_ he thought sadly, but in the end he found some peace, or so Ned hoped. 

Now, Ned was serving Robert’s brother, Stannis Baratheon, the true King of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei’s get were all hers and her twin brother’s. Lannister bastards on the Iron Throne draped in the royal colors of House Baratheon. He had been surprised by the hesitance of some of the lords to back Stannis’ claim. North and Riverlords were not all keen at supporting the rigid and dour former Master of Ships. 

_He is Robert’s true heir,_ Ned had told them in a crowded solar at Riverrun. They grumbled about leaving the south with their mess, and returned home. He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t tempted to just go back to Winterfell, but he couldn’t. He was no longer the Hand of the King, but he was still Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, and he could not turn his back on his duty. 

The commotion at the docks was loud and the noise easily bled through these warped wooden walls. He could hear sailors and dockworkers and the sound of birds squawking overhead. All those people passing through the city from all over the Seven Kingdoms and Essos and here Ned was sitting unseen.

It had been Davos who cautioned Ned that they should be discreet when they arrived at Gulltown. He had been hesitant, but Davos was insistent upon it, and rather blunt. 

_My lord, with all due respect,_ Davos had told him bluntly on the deck of their ship, _Gulltown is all but Lord Baelish’s. It would be foolish of us to flaunt you arriving especially with you being an enemy of his and all._

Ned saw the wisdom and deferred to the former smuggler. He had gotten to know Ser Davos over the last few weeks both from their time in the Riverlands and on the seas. He respected and liked the man. He thought Stannis was fortunate to have such a devoted, but honest follower in his ranks. He spoke his mind when what he thought was right even if that meant going against lords like Ned. 

The reminder of the current Lord of the Coin darkened his mood. 

_Baelish,_ Ned growled, his hand clenching into a fist upon recalling the man’s treachery. 

_I told you not to trust me,_ his smirking face appeared before him. Ned could feel the phantom touch of the dagger’s blade at his throat. 

Sometimes when Ned slept he dreamed he was back in the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. This time one of his walls was as clear as glass, but it was as strong as valyrian steel. He could not break it so he was forced to watch helplessly while they passed him by. 

Petyr Baelish walked slow and smug, stopping here and there to stand and watch him like Ned was some tapestry put up for his amusement. _Do not worry, Stark,_ the specter of Baelish would tell him, _I shall look after Cat for you._

Ned would pound the glass to no avail. That only amused Littlefinger further, but he too would leave. 

Myrcella walked past in a red dress with red, puffy eyes. She stopped and tried to study the glass, but she was chased away by her older brother. Joffrey strode past with a crown atop his head, dressed completely in Lannister crimson and gold with lions stitched into his garment. He shook an angry finger at him. _I’ll have your head, Traitor!_ He’d stomped away when nothing happened. 

Ser Ilyn Payne was next. In one hand he was carrying _Ice,_ the ancestral blade of House Stark. It was dripping red, flecks of brown hair and bone on the valyrian steel. He stopped and faced Ned. He resembled a corpse, pale as bone, with colorless eyes and hollow cheeks. He opened his mouth and made a dreadful clacking sound. He then raised his other hand to show that he was holding something. 

It was the head of Winterfell’s former steward, Vayon Poole. His empty eyes staring back at Ned. Ilyn would leave behind the head and walk away, while making that terrible sharp sound which must have been his laugh. 

Then it was Renly Baratheon standing in front of the glass. He was dressed in expensive fabric of a green velvet doublet and sewn into the cloth were actual silver stag coins. He wore a cape of gold that billowed behind him as if there was a draft in there with him. Atop his long, thick inky black hair he wore a gaudy crown of gold with different gems embedded into it including emeralds and opals, rubies and pearls. 

_“Why didn’t you listen to me, Lord Stark?”_ He shook his head, _“This war is on your hands.”_

_“Stannis is king, Renly. He is Robert’s heir.”_

_Renly laughed as if Ned was the court’s fool. When he opened his mouth to speak, someone else's voice could be heard._

“Lord Stark?” 

Ned moved with a start. He was back in the loft. It seemed his reflections went deeper then he had thought. He looked around to see Ser Davos had returned. He was carrying food. “It isn’t much.” He shrugged apologetically. “Should I?” He gestured to where Ned was currently sitting.

He tried to get up to tell him he would join him at the barrel, but his leg was stiff and the wound prickled irritably. He slumped back down. “If you do not mind, Davos,” He felt like a child being tended to. “You have my thanks.”

Davos was silent in his task. There was no judgment or mockery to be seen on his weathered face when he brought one of the barrels over so that Ned could use it as a table. He then showed him the pitcher of ale he got, pouring them both a cup. 

Ned took his with a nod. He drank it down. It was warm, and thick, but it was welcomed since it helped to push away what he had been thinking about. 

Davos returned next with food. He gave him bread, jerky, and an apple. “Please Davos join me,” Ned gestured to the spot on the other side of the barrel.

He looked surprised by the offer even after all the meals they shared together. It was as if he was still expecting Ned any day now to remember Davos was only a knight and former smuggler and dismiss him from his company. 

“Much obliged, my lord,” Davos said dutifully, bringing over one of the unsteady stools to join him. 

The apple was mushy, but Ned still took several bites of it before putting it down. “Any news?”

“None, my lord.”

“So King’s Landing remains in the Lannister’s hands.” 

“It may, my lord,” Davos replied, “Or it may have fallen and we don’t know it yet.” He frowned at that possibility. 

_Renly,_ Ned remembered him in his dream. He was so proud and sure of what he was doing. He didn’t care that his actions went against all the laws of god and man. 

He could still remember that night back at the Red Keep when Robert lay dying and Renly proposed his plan to him. He urged Ned to strike against the Lannisters, move before the Queen could act. To take Tommen and Myrcella as well as Joffrey as Ned’s wards where he could then be confirmed as Lord Protector by the council.

_Had I listened, would we be at war?_ He had wondered that after he had been betrayed and his loyal household slaughtered. _Would Renly have rebelled then?_

“My Lord?” Davos said, “Do you think it’ll come to war between Stannis and Renly?” 

“I do not know, Ser Davos,” Ned sighed. He took a bite of the jerky. The texture was rough and lean, but he chewed and swallowed. It was difficult to eat with that foul fish odor in the air trying to clog his senses. “I was hoping you would know. You served Stannis when he was Master of Ships while Renly was Master of Law.”

“Aye,” Davos looked down at his tankard, “Aye, I did.” He opened and closed his mouth once and then twice as if trying to decide on what to say. “There’s little love between them, my lord.”

Ned knew that as well just from being with Robert. His friend had admitted that Ned was the brother he chose. _You can have more than one brother,_ He had wanted to tell him. He considered Robert his brother, but he still loved Brandon and Benjen. It appeared Robert couldn’t or wouldn’t when it came to his brothers. _And the Seven Kingdoms are made to suffer because of Baratheons bickering._

“I pray there can be peace, Ser Davos,” Ned admitted, “I’m tired of the south and wish to return to the north to Winterfell with my family.” 

“And never come back?” There was a lightness in Davos’ tone.

Ned looked up and gave the man across from him a small smile. “Only if commanded.” He knew of Davos and his family at Cape Wrath and of his wife and sons. Some served in Stannis’ household, others in the fleet while the younger ones remained with their mother. He suspected the smuggler yearned to see them too, but like him was bound to see this through and that meant Stannis on the Iron Throne.

“If Renly takes the city from the Lannisters,” Ned drank or more like chewed some of the thick ale that Davos had provided. “He will claim himself the King of all Seven Kingdoms and sit upon the Iron Throne.” 

“King Stannis would see it as an insult and one he would not forget, or possibly forgive,” Davos said quietly, “What if Renly was made Stannis’ heir?”

“Renly is already his heir,” Ned corrected.

Davos frowned. “What of the Princess Shireen?”

“The Iron Throne follows a different law, Ser Davos,” Ned answered, “The men of royal blood will always come before the women regardless of birth, a King’s brother would inherit before a king’s daughter.”

Before further discussion could be had of the laws of inheritance within the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne, voices could be heard and then steps. Ned and Davos looked to see the new arrivals. The first face was familiar, it was Cley Cerwyn, the new Lord of Cerwyn who Ned had made his squire. 

“My lord,” Cley bowed, the young man beside him followed his lead. He was wearing a traveler’s cloak but it could not conceal the armored boots he wore or the gleaming of metal that wasn’t covered. He had short and messy blond hair. He knew his name even though they had never been introduced, he was Lord Redfort’s youngest son, Mychel Redfort.

The young man stepped forward to present himself. His face scrunched up from the smell before his eyes turned to Ned, where his expression smoothed over. “Lord Stank,” He immediately blanched, “I mean Lord Stark,” he stammered out, bowing his head quickly. “Lord Stark,” He said a second time, “My apologies,” He still wouldn’t raise his head. 

The poor lad was clearly distracted by the dead, rotting fish smell that filled this warehouse. It was an all too familiar distraction for Ned too. 

“Calm yourself,” Ned assured him, “No insult was given.”

Mychel slowly raised his head, eyes peeking out from behind his messy hair, “Thank you, my lord.” He straightened up, relieved. 

“You are to take us to your father?” Ser Davos asked.

“I am,” Mychel turned his way, “You’re the smuggler?”

“He is a former smuggler,” Ned put in, “He is now _Ser_ Davos Seaworth.”

Mychel gave a slight nod to acknowledge the correction. “Of course,” His tone sounded sincere when he apologized, “My father is honored to have you both.” He turned back to Lord Stark, “I have a small party of men-at-arms and knights outside the city that will serve as our escort for the trip to my family’s castle.” 

Ned nodded, He would not argue for leaving this smelly warehouse and this city. He turned to see neither Davos or Cley objected, “Then lead the way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly due to the ripples in this story, Jaime is still Cersei's thrall. We also need to remember Jaime's good deed doesn't wash away his bad. Myrcella has every right to call him cruel and selfish b/c his actions have ruined her.
> 
> Even with the Targaryens removed I think its logical for some to believe that most would expect the law and precedence of the Great Councils to be followed when it came to royal heirs which would technically put Renly before Shireen. Though with Renly rebelling and all it does make ya think. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	7. Seven

**Sansa:**

“Are these numbers, right?”

“They are, my lady.”

She didn’t look up at Luwin’s answer. Sansa’s attention remained on the parchment and maps spread out before her. She could sense the maester’s presence just out of sight, hovering, and waiting. Domeric was on the other side, across from her. She saw the reason for his choice since every time she did look up, there he was. His was a calming presence that she needed during these trying days. An anchor to help keep her steady while the waters around her churned so turbently. 

They had been at Winterfell for little more than a week and the Harvest Feast was less than a fortnight away, and Sansa still didn’t believe everything was ready. Even after so many days of just her and her husband, she expected father or mother to walk through that door. _You’ve done well,_ they’d say, smiling and proud, before they’d smoothly take over and effortlessly finish the same problems that she continued to fret over. 

_This is my task,_ she took a calming breath, knowing her parents were not coming through the Gates of Winterfell. They had their own responsibilities to tend to, the same as her brothers. _Winterfell is mine._

Sansa was in her father’s solar. She had requested Maester Luwin to retrieve the records of her bannermen while a map was sprawled out beside it. The past Lords of Winterfell kept records of the northern houses. A way for them to see which houses were growing, which ones were shrinking. To keep track of the lands, the people, the supplies to better prepare for the harsh and long winters.

Alongside those records were the numbers that Luwin had taken when Robb had called the banners. She was looking over them to try to get the measure of the north, the strength of families and houses, and to get an understanding of the ongoing harvest. Autumn was here so it was time for the lords of the north to store part of their grain as well as the preparations that needed to be made by the salting, smoking, and other methods to preserve food for an expected long winter. 

Soon visiting lords and ladies would be arriving at Winterfell and she needed to be well rehearsed when speaking to them. She knew they’d give her their own numbers as well as asking requests, seeking favors, and other exchanges to help themselves and their people for the coming winter. Sansa did not want to be caught unaware. 

_So many numbers,_ She felt the slight tinge of a headache beginning to build. Sansa never had a head for numbers despite her efforts to improve. Thankfully, she had Maester Luwin who remained patient, supportive, and helpful.

“If I’m reading this correctly,” she was quietly hoping she was, “Our harvests should not be impeded too much by the war in the south.” 

“They should not be, my lady,” Luwin said from her side. 

Sansa did not turn, but she knew he was smiling. She let out the small breath she had been holding when she was bracing herself to be wrong. She had previously feared they would not have enough, but the numbers in front of her were telling her a different story. 

“Your brother was able to call upon twenty thousand men relatively quickly,” Luwin stepped closer, “Well, relatively quickly for the north,” he amended, “There are still thousands available, but the north is vast and it would take time,” his finger pointing to various strongholds within the north. “It will be more challenging if the ironborn or the wildlings do strike.”

“House Bolton is prepared to raise more men in defense of Winterfell and House Stark.”

Sansa looked up to see her husband was just where she had hoped, right across from her. He offered her a small smile. “It says you can raise an additional five hundred men?” She gestured to the records her father had on the Dreadfort, and House Bolton’s holdings.

“We have more than that,” Domeric corrected, “I should be able to raise near eight hundred.” 

“That is good and impressive,” Luwin said from where he stood, but his tone was different. 

“We are a strong house.”

“And my family is grateful for it,” Sansa smiled back at him. “House Manderly too should be able to call upon another great number of men if it is needed.”

“They should indeed, my lady.”

“Maester Luwin?” She thought she caught something. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

“If this is correct,” She slid the parchment over for him to see, “Does this mean that they also have more that can be called upon.”

“Who?” That was Domeric.

“The northern mountain clans,” she answered, but her attention was on Luwin who was comparing the notes he had written when Robb called the bannermen with the records. 

“It is, my lady,” he confirmed. “Your brother did not have the time to wait for all of them and other such houses.”

“I understand,” Sansa did not fault her brother or her bannermen. Robb had needed to move quickly to save their father. “I do not think I remember getting any word from any of the clans about attending the Harvest Feast.” 

“We did not,” Luwin said, “They are not likely to come to such a gathering. They’d prefer to remain in their mountains.”

“What are their numbers?” Domeric asked.

“Nearly three thousand men,” despite her struggles with numbers, even she could not miss such a large gap. She tried to remember what father had said about them. How they were different than their other bannermen in how they behaved, interacted, and how they saw themselves. They did not all live in castles or keep maesters and ravens. That was in part why it was difficult for them to come as swiftly as some of the other far northern bannermen like Houses Umber, Karstark, and Mormont. 

Sansa remembered her father spoke fondly of his visits to the mountain clans, but she had been so surprised and scandalized by the stories when she was younger. How they’d address her father, their lord as merely _The Ned_ or _the Stark in Winterfell._ Their lands bordered the Gift which meant they had their fair share of dealings with the wildings so she was certain they’d come to Winterfell’s call and to the north’s defense. She was more worried about having to make the call than fearing who and how many would respond. 

_The call would mean the wildlings were near. It would mean war. It would mean,_ her eyes finding her husband’s, _watching Domeric march off into battle._ The chill seeped into her chest. _It will come,_ she knew, _but that doesn’t mean I’m ready._

* * *

Another day of duties was done and she was glad for it. 

Sansa was making her way to the chambers she shared with her husband. It was a short stroll through familiar corridors with no interruptions or questions. There was no one reporting problems while others sought answers and opinions to other matters. She hoped it would get easier to handle the more she eased into it all. _They all said she was doing well_ , the household, Maester Luwin, the guards, servants, everyone, but pressing at the back of her mind was her worry, a small voice asking: _what else were they to say to her?_

_You are terrible, my lady._

_Your mother would be ashamed._

_They let the wrong Stark hold Winterfell._

She hoped they were honest even though she worried they weren’t. The Harvest Feast drew near which meant her role would be even more scrutinized when the northern nobility gathered at Winterfell. 

The door was in sight and her mood lifted even more because of it. It was only a few more steps till she was inside. Her husband was the first thing she saw. His desk faced the door on the far side of their chambers while its back was against the wall. Hers was adjacent, but facing one of their windows. He was reading something, but he looked up, having heard her arrival. He lowered the parchment, smiling. 

_My husband,_ she was smiling too, It still made her giddy to think she was married to him. It had happened mere weeks ago at Riverrun, but here they were now at Winterfell, together. She couldn’t be happier. “What are you reading, husband?” She did not miss the slight quirk of his lip that he made whenever she called him, _husband._

“A letter from my father.”

 _Ah,_ she had gone over to her desk to see if Luwin had delivered any new letters or other notes when she had been busy with her other duties. Thankfully, there hadn’t been any new ones. _Plenty of old ones,_ she thumbed through some of them, knowing she’d need to read them all as well as act and answer them. 

“What does he say?” She already had a strong suspicion of the contents of Lord Bolton’s letter. The inquiries he would make, the blunt manner he went about in persisting on knowing if _any fruit_ had bloomed from their marriage. _We’ve only been married a few weeks,_ she wanted to remind him, it was as if Lord Bolton was expecting Sansa to have had a baby born and blessed by the time they reached Winterfell. 

_It’s been a month,_ she wanted to write to him. A small voice nagged at her that it was more than a month and creeping closer to two months, but she pushed it aside. That wasn’t important. 

“He asks after your health,” Domeric had a way of making his father’s inquiries sound rather genuine. As if Lord Bolton was truly only curious and concerned about her well being. 

“I am well,” She answered, “I am blessed, I am happy,” she listed them off, knowing Lord Bolton cared little for such things. Sansa smiled at her husband at seeing the concern expression settling over him that always came when his father was discussed.

She then turned towards their bed, unsurprised that Lady was not there. She was out hunting. 

It was in the back of her mind, a door she could easily open. It was ajar now so she could see glimpses while being more attuned to Lady’s senses if her attention lingered and focused on her direwolf. Remembering Jon’s advice she didn’t focus on her direwolf or try to slip into Lady, but tried to root herself to their chambers with her husband.

“I fear father will be _worried_ after you for some time,” Domeric’s voice made it even easier for her. His tone was apologetic. 

“I’m fortunate to have such a caring good father,” Sansa replied just as carefully as her husband had been. “Does he speak of anything else?”

“He does.”

“Oh?” She looked over her shoulder towards him to see her husband’s face was solemn. “What is it on?” 

Domeric didn’t answer her right away. He looked down at the letter and then to her. “Do you wish to know?” His tone surprised her. 

“Yes.” Sansa felt the slightest quiver within her chest at seeing and hearing her husband’s somberness.

“Very well, my father speaks of a wily scheme he wishes for me to partake in. It will be no easy task,” He sighed, “I must seduce my wife so I can steal Winterfell.”

It took a heartbeat or more for her to realize she had been duped. She wasn’t happy. 

“Dom!” She protested at her husband’s dry tone while watching that easy smile come to his mouth. “That wasn’t funny,” her scolding proved ineffective between the bouts of her own giggling. 

She had heard those outrageous whispers before. Those rumors of flayed fingers trying to wrap around the heart of the north. To strangle the wolf and claim Winterfell for themselves. It was silly nonsense. The rumblings came from the suspicious and the sullen. The ones who had not liked the idea of the union between the Dreadfort and Winterfell. 

_It’s Domeric I trust,_ it was thought without hesitation. She paid the envious no mind, dismissing their gossip for what it was. 

He was unrepentant. “It was amusing.”

Sansa ignored that. “Your father was right,” she agreed, “It will be no easy task to seduce your wife,” she teased.

“Oh?” Domeric’s eyes were dark and warm. “It will be a challenge I admit, but I’m not without charm.”

Sansa snorted at that, then covered her mouth when she was afraid more laughter would follow. “Of course you are.”

He had gotten out from behind his desk. The letter from his father was still in one hand when he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Your encouragement is appreciated, wife,” He kissed that spot on her neck that made her blood go as hot as the hot springs under Winterfell. 

She let out a happy hum at her husband’s affectionate attention. 

“Are my chances improving?” He murmured against her.

“They are.” It would’ve been so easy to get lost in this, but sadly, now was not the time to pursue it despite the strong temptation. She wiggled out from his grip, his protest was an indignant grunt. She turned to see the disappointment in his expression. “We will be expecting company soon.” Someone was bound to be coming shortly to inform them that supper was ready. 

“I shall practice my charms until then.”

Sansa’s suspicion proved right when someone knocked on their door. “Come in,” She expected it to be Jeyne or Beth to inform her that supper was ready. It was neither. Standing in the doorway, looking grim was Ser Rodrick. He did not wait to give his news. 

“A wildling raiding party has been scouted to the north of Winterfell, my lady.”

“How many?” Domeric’s expression darkened. 

“I do not know the exact number, but there have been reports of several homesteads having been attacked.”

“That is all they know,” Domeric muttered. “I will see justice done,” He then turned to her, “with your permission, my lady?”

“You have it,” She didn’t hesitate, “You may leave in the morning.” 

He nodded, “I will inform my men.” He left. 

“Thank you, Ser Rodrik,” She dismissed him.

 _Tomorrow I watch my husband leave Winterfell with a small party to deal with these wildlings,_ she was preparing herself for supper even though she found herself losing her appetite, _but soon it will be me saying farewell to him at the front of an army off for battle._

* * *

**Garlan:**

_I am sorry, my love._

_I was wrong, I was wrong. There is nothing inside me now but despair. Forgive me. My heart aches and I pray for your return to me. Please, I cannot be parted from you. I would not even have the bittersweet consolation of our babe in my belly that would have your kind heart and warm laugh. I could not bear it._

_Please, I love you, Please, come back to me. I love you._

The tear drops on the letter were not all from his wife. 

He let loose a breath. The ink sank into him like ice. He cleared his throat, but that stubborn swell remained. He blinked away any remaining tears that did not fall, while cursing himself that he had to be so far away while his Leonette was suffering alone from all this pain and heartache. 

_I should be at her side,_ The sorrow cut deeper than any dagger. Here they were no more than two days' ride from the capital. _It’ll be weeks before I can see her again._

She had been so happy, so confident that she was carrying their first child. As was he. It had made him even more reluctant to leave her side when she was so certain of the life they had made that was growing inside her. There was no babe, and she was alone when she’d need him most. 

_I am her husband, but what comfort can I give her from here?_ He was so frustrated, he had already crumpled up two pieces of parchment in his attempt to try to draft a letter to return to her. 

_I need to hold her, to soothe her, rub her back the way she likes, to keep her close in my arms under our blankets, her nestled against me._

He tried to wonder what test they were being given and by whom. _Was it the Mother? The Maiden? The Warrior?_ He always lit the candles, sang the psalms, made his tithes, and meant his prayers. He had done his vigil, he had honored his vows as a husband and as a knight. And still there was no blessing for him and his wife. 

_What more do you ask?_ He glanced up at the canvas ceiling of his tent, but there was no answer.

Garlan had never grown comfortable to the tent he had been given. It was modestly sized and furnished, all the trappings and colors of his family. The two roses of his personal standard on display, but it was what was missing in his tent, his darling Leonette. This tent could not be his home, because she was. 

_Every day I go further and further from her,_ He clenched his fist. _My wife needs me more than Renly needs my sword._

“Garlan?”

He turned around sharply at the sound of his name to see Loras. His brother was smiling, but it dipped at Garlan’s reaction to him. “Are you well?” His face shifting from carefree to concern in an instant.

“No,” Garlan answered honestly. “I received a letter from Leonette.”

“Has something happened?” Loras cut across the tent quickly, “Is she well?”

“She is.” _How can she be?_

“And the baby?” Loras asked hesitantly.

“There wasn’t one.”

“I’m sorry, brother,” Loras hugged him. “You will be parents soon,” He clapped his back, “I know it!” His brother could be so charming and convincing it wasn’t hard for Garlan to believe him. To feel that frustration melt away under Loras’ bright eyes and smile. 

“Leonette can have her baby in the capital.” It wasn’t just charm his brother had in abundance; it was a certain carefreeness that came with being a third son. The victory was already theirs. The fighting didn’t even bother him. There was no fretting or doubt, he already saw them all in the capital. 

“King’s Landing?” Garlan made a face. “Once the war is over I’m returning to Highgarden, to my wife,”

“It will be over soon,” Loras looked so assured. “Renly will be crowned in a matter of days if not a week.” His face betrayed his clear affection towards their sister’s husband. “He will be a great king.”

“He is your _friend_ not mine.”

“What?” Loras was frowning.

Garlan sighed. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this, especially not now with Leonette’s gloom clouding his own heart. “Your _friend_ needs to attend our sister.” 

“He will,” Loras didn’t try to deny that Renly had made no attempt to be with their sister since their wedding.

“Loras, I know you love him,” Garlan began.

“But what?” Loras’ anger could come quickly. 

Garlan had weathered many of his brother’s outbursts. They would strike quickly like lightning. “That you need to remember that the more he is in your bed the less chance our sister has in having his babe.” He pushed down the awkwardness that affected his tone and stance. He thought it difficult enough to have this talk with Margaery, but it proved just as challenging when speaking to Loras, but just like with his sister, it needed to be said so he pressed on. “If she is not pregnant, who will the court and people blame, Renly or Margaery?”

Loras deflated. His face softening, smoothing over the anger that had clouded his expression only seconds ago. “I know that,” He wasn’t defensive in tone, it was a bitter acceptance at what could befall his sister and his own part in it. 

“I know you do,” Garlan assured him. “Just your family needs you too, Loras.”

“After the capital is taken,” Loras vowed, “I’ll,” he paused, looking troubled, it was no easy thing to share someone you loved especially when he was forced to with his own sister. “I’ll stay away until she’s pregnant if I have to.” His eyes softening at the idea of a long separation between them.

It was a pain Garlan was all too familiar with. His wife’s absence was felt keenly and constantly. How he’d turn to ask her how he looked when he dressed, or ask her something, roll over in his bed expecting her right beside him, so many little things that built into something he cherished with all his heart.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Garlan was proud of his younger brother. “I do not know about you, but I could use a good spar.”

Loras’ smile was slow in coming when he nodded. “I would like that.”

* * *

The supper that night had been quiet and intimate. 

Renly had surprised Garlan when the king requested for a small gathering for a simple supper. It had been attended only by Renly, Loras, Margaery, and himself. He wondered if this had been his brother’s idea or had Renly grown tired or bored of the constant and lavish banquets that he was throwing during their march to King’s Landing. 

Their meal was nearly over when they were alerted they had a visitor requesting to see Renly. 

“Who’s the guest?” Renly had still been smiling from a funny story Loras had finished telling. The two were sitting across from each other, Garlan sat to his other side while Margaery sat beside her husband and across from him.

“Lord Petyr Baelish.”

“I shall see him,” Renly looked intrigued, “Send him here, but do so discreetly.”

“The rats are always first to abandon ship,” Garlan muttered, he thought little of the flesh peddler that was Littlefinger. 

Renly smiled. “A rat he may be, Garlan, but even rats have their uses.” 

Their wait for the Master of Coin didn’t take long. _Lord_ Peter Baelish was dressed in a dark cloak with a hood to conceal his face. Garlan wondered how long it would be before the capital noticed his absence or how he had been able to slip away into the night from a city without being seen.

“King Renly,” He removed the hood before bowing, “and Queen Margaery,” his head was still dipped, “You look radiant.”

Margaery replied first. “Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

“I must say you are an unexpected guest,” Renly raised his hand and a servant moved to present him with the traditional bread and salt. 

He only took a small bite of the bread before washing it down with the wine. “I hope I'm not an unwelcomed one.” 

“It depends on the purpose of your presence.”

“How did you get here?” Garlan asked, getting the man’s attention for the first time since his arrival, “The city should be well guarded and alerted with a siege so soon at hand.” 

Baelish spread his hands out. “You’ll find that coin has a way of distracting men.”

 _Bribes,_ Garlan should’ve known. 

“What gold can’t buy a woman can,” He continued, “My brothels are very busy.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re able to profit from our soon to be siege,” Renly said lightly, “But I’m not surprised by it, you always have a way of making coins appear.”

“You honor me, Your Grace,” Baelish had finished his wine, “I’ve come to offer you, my fealty.” 

Garlan bit down a snort. He was not alone in his dismay. Loras was watching the Master of Coin closely, and with a frown. Margaery hid her interest behind a demure look.

“Tell me, Baelish,” Renly leaned forward in his seat, “How did Queen Cersei and my nephew take your decision to leave the city to join me?”

“They are unaware of my defection.”

That confession surprised no one in the room. 

“What can you offer me, Baelish?” 

“I know you have no need for my _women_ , your grace,” his smirk was small and fleeting, “So how about the city itself?”

“King’s Landing?” 

“That’s right, Ser Garlan, the sooner the city has fallen to King Renly, the sooner you can return to your lovely wife.”

Garlan’s anger flared. He didn’t like him mentioning her. 

“Do you plan on buying the city out from under the Lannisters, Lord Baelish?” Margaery’s innocence was well feigned. 

“Nothing _that_ expensive, your grace. The Lannisters hold the city, but the gold cloaks follow the gold,” He smiled, "As Master of Coin, it's still my responsibility to pay them. I can get one of the gates open for you and your army when the time is right.” 

“What about the Lannister forces?” Loras asked, “Surely they’ll be at the gates too.”

“They're not all so well defended,” Baelish said regretfully and without sincerity, “You’ve spread them too thin.”

“This is a generous offer, Lord Baelish,” King Renly betrayed little in his expression, “I suspect you seek a generous reward.”

“I would have my title as Master of Coin confirmed under your reign,” Baelish began, “There are a few other things, but that could be discussed at later times,” he waved his hand as if they were trivial trinkets he cared little for, “It should be spoken of in the chambers of the Red Keep and not some tent on the Rose Road.”

“I have the numbers to take the city, Baelish,” Renly was calm and confident. “The men of King’s Landing may see our forces and decide fighting for a king like Joffrey isn’t worth their lives. They’re starving and desperate, perhaps they’ll even oust the lions for me and they’ll do it all for some bread and wine.” 

“The Lannisters are stubborn, Your Grace,” Baelish scratched at his goatee. “Their grip on the Iron Throne is strong. Lord Tywin is prepared to do anything to secure his grandson’s claim.”

“Such as sending you here to trick us?” 

“My wife asks a fair question,” Renly smiled in her direction. He even patted the hand that was resting on the table. It was the most _genuine_ affection Garlan had witnessed his sister’s husband give her. 

“A fair question but I’m wounded all the same.” Baelish placed his hand over his heart, “My price may be steep but I have plentiful amounts of information to make it worth it. I still have friends in Riverrun and in the Vale. It was from there that I heard one of many interesting stories. This story was of Lord Stark seeking the Lords of the Vale as an ally for your brother, Stannis.”

Renly’s smile dipped at the mention of his brother. “That is interesting news, Baelish.” He said flatly. 

“Your brother has taken Antlers, Your Grace. He will likely soon take Duskendale. He controls the Royal Fleet and two of the seven kingdoms with the Vale possibly joining them. That is no small army.”

“Our numbers are still greater,” Loras pointed out proudly. 

“For now,” Littlefinger was undeterred or impressed, “A bloody siege would be costly for you especially with your brother getting closer.” 

“You make a good argument,” Renly admitted, before he stood up. Loras followed suit. “I wish to hear more of this alliance, Lord Baelish.”

“I will be glad to say more. I’ll even sing if needed,” He smiled, but his eyes showed no mirth.

“The Lannisters will not miss you?” 

“No, Your Grace, I will not be needed for some time.”

“Good,” Renly gestured for Baelish to join him which he did with Loras walking behind them. He turned to Garlan and Margaery, his face nearly looking sincere in his silent apology, “My darling wife, I leave you in the care of your brother.”

Garlan didn’t like the mocking smile on Baelish’s face no matter how fleeting it had been. 

“Of course, my husband,” Margaery returned the fake pleasantness, but her face dimmed as soon as they left the tent. She sighed. 

“I hope you do not wish to be in Baelish’s company more than my own.”

That got a small smile. “Do not be ridiculous, brother.”

“Yes, we’ll leave that to your husband,” Garlan said only half jokingly, “He'll discover your true worth soon enough.” He stood and held out his arm for her to take. 

“Thank you, brother.”

He smiled, and then kissed her cheek. “Anything for you, sister.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domeric can be a troll just like his father.
> 
> The north’s military strength is a bit iffy with some claiming it can raise 45,000 given enough time, Robb got 20,000 on short notice. So even if the north doesn’t quite have 40,000-45,000 thousand, its safe to assume they have at least 8000-10000 men who could be called on if needed.
> 
> Leonette didn’t have a miscarriage. She thought/believed/felt she was pregnant, but she wasn’t. It’s known as false pregnancy and/or pseudocyesis. 
> 
> I always thought Baelish and Renly had a more interesting/ambiguous relationship in the book then they do in the show. Also its Littlefinger so of course he'll be able to find a way to leave the city if he needed to. 
> 
> Oh, and we're one step closer to the Battle of King’s Landing. It’s getting close. I imagine I can’t cover the battle as: 
> 
> *Renly fought the Lannisters. The Battle ended. (Redacted) won. End chapter.* 
> 
> It would make for the easiest and shortest chapter that I’ve ever written. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is Rated M for graphic violence among other things. This chapter will contain violence and mention/refer to rape, torture, and murder. It takes place in the first part of this story.

**Colmar:**

“What are you doing?”

Lord Domeric spoke calmly despite the skirmishing having only just finished. The wildlings had been routed and those that tried to flee were chased down. It was a raiding band that Lord Domeric suspected may have once been scouts for their king but they lacked the patience and discipline to stick to their tasks. _They saw all this land and these people and they couldn’t help themselves._ Lord Domeric didn’t hold back his opinion on the wildlings.

One such wildling survivor was sitting on the ground, leaning his back on the ruins of a short stone wall. There was red seeping through his clothes from his wounds. 

The man who they saved, the man who Lord Domeric was addressing was the fattest man Colmar had ever seen. He was wrapped in black fur and bundled in black clothes showing that he was a member of the Night’s Watch. He was crouching awkwardly and Colmar thought he might tip over. His chins seemed to be quivering when he turned to face Lord Domeric. His eyes widened and Colmar suspected he just saw the emblazoned flayed man on Lord Domeric’s black armor. 

_He would not be the first man frightened by the Bolton sigil._

“I-I was just checking,” He began, before stopping, “trying to help.”

These wildlings had attacked this man’s small group and he had still tried to help this bleeding wildling in some way. Colmar wasn’t sure what to think of it, _was it_ _kindness or was it foolishness?_

“What is your name?”

“Sam,” The Brother in Black said, “Sam Tarly, my lord.” 

“Tarly?” Lord Domeric repeated. 

Colmar recognized the name too. One of the great houses in the Reach, they had pledged themselves to King Renly. He thought it odd that a family so southern would send one of their kin to the Wall. _We have plenty at the Twins that the Wall can surely have,_ Colmar thought they had enough to open up at least one of the abandoned castles on the Wall and fill it with Freys. 

“Yes.”

“Well met, Sam,” He stepped forward, hand out, “I’m Domeric Bolton, Heir to the Dreadfort.”

Sam took the offered hand and repeated the expected greeting. 

“This is my squire, Colmar Frey,” He inclined his head towards him.

Colmar nodded and Sam returned it. 

“Were you traveling alone?” Lord Domeric ignored the groaning and bleeding wildling.

“No, I traveled with two others, Red Alyn of the Rosewood, and Guy of Duskendale,” He paused to take a breath, “We stumbled upon the wildlings and they killed them.” 

“And you still tried to help this wildling?” 

“Yes,” Sam was no longer shaking. 

“Help,” Lord Domeric sounded amused, “We do not help our enemies, Sam Tarly,” He stepped past the newly met Night’s Watchmen while he withdrew his axe. “We kill them.”

Colmar looked away, but he still heard the wet crunch of the axe cutting through the flesh and then the soft thud of the head hitting the ground. He felt his belly clench, but didn’t turn to see the headless corpse. He heard a groan and he was certain it was from Sam Tarly. 

“Lord Domeric?” Sam’s voice sounded a bit squeamish. “I was travelling with some books from Castle Black. They’re very old and when the wildlings attacked, I-I ran to hide them.” 

“Books all the way from Castle Black. I would very much like to read them if I can,” He didn’t try to mask his interest at such an opportunity. “Colmar,” He turned to him, “Go with Sam to retrieve them and then meet me there.” He pointed to the nearby smoking homestead. It belonged to the family that they hadn’t been quick enough to save. 

Colmar followed Sam’s lead as they trudged through slush and mud. “How long have you been with the Watch?”

“Nearly a year,” Sam answered, “Does Lord Domeric really want to read them?” He asked after a few beats of silence. His question came with a sheepish look as if he wasn’t sure he should ask or not. There was an apologetic shine in his dark eyes. 

“Yes,” Colmar saw the surprise on Sam’s face. He thought that was an honest reaction since seconds ago Lord Domeric just executed a wildling without hesitation or emotion, but at the sound of books, he had instantly perked up. “He likes his histories and he likes his harp.” 

That seemed to only further mystify Sam. “He plays?” 

“Yes, quite well, but he mostly just plays for his wife.” 

“The Lady Bolton?” Sam asked before clarifying, “Lord Stark’s eldest daughter?”

Colmar confirmed it and they walked in silence some more before Sam bid them to stop. He crouched down and Colmar followed, seeing the dirt and the leaves that looked to have been disturbed. It only took Sam a few seconds to brush away his hiding spot before revealing the pile of books bundled up in what looked to be black canvas. He picked up the books, but didn’t move to stand up. “When the fighting started, I ran,” His voice was thin, “Guy and Alyn fought and died while I fled.” He sniffed before he slowly stood up. “It wouldn’t surprise my father.” 

He remembered his first battle and the ones that followed. He did not want to, but that never stopped the thoughts from bleeding through. He would hear the screams, he could smell the smoke and the shit. _I may have run too_. He wondered if he should say something, but then the moment passed. 

“We should return like Lord Domeric asked.”

Colmar didn’t argue and the two followed the muddy footprints they had left behind. Most of the Bolton men were milling about outside the homestead. There were eight surviving wildlings, who were bound and on their knees. They had not wanted to be taken, they fought and they struggled trying to die, but the Bolton men were skilled at taking them alive. 

_Is this training they receive at the Dreadfort?_ He remembered how they did the same thing to many of the Bloody Mummers in the Riverlands. Colmar shivered at the memory. 

Captain Rylen was waiting for them by the door. “Lord Domeric’s inside,” He pointed to the doorway, the shattered splinters of wood that used to be the door had been tossed aside. 

Colmar hesitated, he was not sure he wanted to go in, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. He walked in where his stomach stirred at the smells that lingered in the one room home. He heard the flies buzzing before he saw them, in the corner of the room was the family who had lived here. They were all dead, but they were covered by pale red Bolton cloaks. 

“The boy must have been ten,” Lord Domeric was standing by the hearth. They had started a fire. The glows of the firelight showing the damage to the homestead of how it was ransacked, all of the furniture had been broken and smashed into pieces, items were scattered across the room. It was as if a storm had come through, ripping it all up and spitting everything in different directions.

He heard Sam shift beside him. He glanced to see Sam was pale again and his mouth was trembling. 

Lord Domeric stood with his back to them. He poked at the fire, getting a bright orange flame to bloom before he turned to them. He regarded Sam, “It isn’t pleasant, Tarly, but what do you expect from wildlings?” He looked down at the bundle of books in his hands. “They look old, I wonder what mysteries and histories can be found upon their pages.” A rare smile came to Lord Domeric. “I hope you will tell me of them on our return to Winterfell.”

“I’d be happy to.”

That was when Lady appeared in the doorway. The direwolf was near the size of a horse so she didn’t venture into the homestead. Her maw was bloody and her yellow eyes inquisitive when they rested on Sam. 

“This is our new guest,” Domeric talked to the wolf as if it could understand him, “Sam Tarly.” 

It was not the first time Colmar had seen him speak to the direwolf. It was a strange thing to witness. He didn’t speak to it like one would a dog or a cat or horse even a babe, it was different. 

To Sam’s credit, he didn’t look to be trembling when he was the center of the wolf’s attention. Colmar wondered if Lady saw supper when seeing him, but if it did, it wasn’t hungry since it made no move to attack. Whatever it was looking for, it seemed satisfied since she then backed out of the homestead and disappeared from sight. 

Domeric appeared satisfied since he turned back to face the fire. Colmar’s eyes went to the bit of green on the black plate armor. He knew it to be Lady Sansa’s favor. Before they left Colmar wanted to ask Jeyne for hers, but he wasn’t brave enough. It didn’t stop him from seeing it play out in his head. Her face flickered in front of his with a growing smile while she accepted his request. Or at how tenderly she’d tie the silk to his arm. He’d wonder if she could feel his pulse, since his heart would be thundering in his chest. 

_To be so close to her, to have her blessing, to be able to touch her, to be able to call her my beloved,_ but Colmar shoved those thoughts aside. _She is not my betrothed no matter how much I wish for it._ He didn’t need to think long to know that Arya would never give him a favor. She’d scrunch her long face and twist her mouth like he asked for something repulsive. _She’s more likely to run me through then tie a favor to my arm._

It was the sound of rattling that pulled Colmar’s attention back inside the homestead to see one of the wildlings was being dragged inside by two Bolton men. He saw the reason for the rattling: the wildling had loosely tied bones to his armor. 

_They weren’t all animal bones,_ Colmar’s observation made him nauseous. He tried not to look at them, especially the suspiciously human shaped ones. He ignored the comparison to the Bolton flayed man on Lord Domeric’s armor in terms of its savagery because he knew such a thing said aloud would not be well received. 

The wildling fought and kicked, growled and cursed, but he could not free himself from the ropes. He was a small man with pinched cheeks and a wispy mustache. 

“He was wearing this, my lord,” Captain Rylen presented a yellowed but broken skull that was human shaped, but it looked too large to come from any man.

He accepted the skull. He held it to the firelight. “This is a giant’s skull.” 

_A giant?_ Colmar thought he heard wrong. _Giants weren’t real. They belong in stories._ He heard no jape in Lord Domeric’s tone nor saw it in his expression. 

“My lord?” A Bolton man-at-arms was in the doorway. “It’s done.”

“Bring it in,” Lord Domeric didn’t take his eyes off of his latest trophy.

Colmar felt an icy spring well up inside him when they brought _it_ in. The _it_ was a Bolton flaying cross _._ It was poorly and hastily built, but the logs held together when they moved some of the broken furniture aside in order to keep the cross in place. The wildling was put to it, but instead of nails they used rope.

Colmar looked back at Lord Domeric, but his face betrayed nothing. He had sworn that he wouldn’t crucify any more men back at Riverrun, but here he was with the same one he used when he crucified every member of the Bloody Mummers he could get his hands on. _Is Lord Domeric disregarding his vow to Lord Stark?_

“You wouldn’t give my men a name to put to this,” Lord Domeric gestured to the skull in his hand. 

“I-I think I know it,” Sam offered. He nearly shrunk inside his cloak when all eyes turned to him.

“Crow,” Hissed the wildling, struggling against his ropes. 

“You know it?” 

Sam nodded, “I’ve heard about him from my brothers on the Wall,” He admitted, “They were not pleasant stories.” He grimaced, “they called him Lord of Bones.” He never once looked in the wildling’s direction. 

“Did you hear that, men?” Lord Domeric asked them, “We’re in the presence of a wildling lord.” 

The Bolton men laughed, some even bowed to the wildling prisoner.

“Thank you, Sam,” Lord Domeric said politely, “My men will give you some rations and you can tend to your books while I tend to this.” 

Sam didn’t argue. He thanked Lord Domeric and followed one of the Bolton men outside. Colmar didn’t dare ask if he could follow. _Whatever was coming, I must watch it._ He felt as if his belly was being squeezed by invisible claws. _I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to watch._

“ _Your people_ are so proud of saying that you live beyond the Wall, that you’re no kneelers and that our laws mean nothing to you,” Lord Domeric withdrew a dagger from his belt. The blade was thin with a sharp tip. The pommel was pale as bone with bits of garnets embedded into it to make it resemble blood drops. “Flaying is outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms, but your king and your people aren’t part of the Seven Kingdoms.” His eyes were dark and cold like a winter’s night. 

Something cold pressed down on Colmar's back. He didn’t understand what the heir of the Dreadfort was doing or thinking. _Does he hate the wildlings so much?_

“ _The Lord of Bones,_ ” He scoffed, “What would a wildling know about lordship.” He then sheathed his knife. “You may come from beyond the Wall, but this is the Seven Kingdoms and we have laws. Laws that you broke and you and your men will be punished.” 

The first wildling was brought in and pushed to the floor. His arms were bound behind his back. One of the Bolton men kept a firm grip on his shoulder while the wildling jerked his body trying to break free, muttering and cursing behind a curtain of dirty brown hair that had fallen over his face. 

“Your men stole so that will cost them their hands,” Domeric pointed out, “your men raped so I will geld them and they will watch me toss their bits into the fire,” Domeric went on. “And they killed which will cost them their heads.” 

“And then what?” The Lord of Bones’ tone didn’t contain his earlier bite, “You’ll do it to me?” 

“Your hands and your cock? Yes,” Lord Domeric answered mildly, “Perhaps I’ll take your head too,” He shrugged, “Or perhaps I’ll leave you tied and bloodied to that cross and let the wolves or the crows claim you.” 

The Lord of Bones’ face went nearly as pale as his bone ornamented shirt at that possible punishment.

Lord Domeric was handed his axe while the Bolton men pinned the wildling down. They grabbed his bound hands and put them on the waiting stool. The wildling squirmed and grunted, but the Bolton men were too strong. 

“Let us begin,” Domeric’s axe fell swiftly. 

* * *

**Kevan:**

It was a long walk back to the Red Keep, but Kevan took it slowly. His brother had put him in charge of the walls of the city. He would be leading its defenses. He had spent the day inspecting the gates and the walls from both the inside of the city and the outside. 

His brother had set up a series of obstacles along the field, including moats and trenches and pits and pikes and other nasty surprises. Tywin was wisely placing them in a way that would funnel Renly’s army to where Tywin wanted them to go. Renly’s numbers will mean a lot less when they’re clogged and bogged down in such a narrow field where less than a dozen men or a few horses could move side by side. 

The most dangerous of the traps that had been made had them using wildfire. Kevan felt uneasy using such a volatile weapon, but they had no choice. Renly had made them desperate. _He’ll feel the heat of that desperation._ Kevan had enough history with the Mad King that he didn’t want to think about those who’d burn to the green flames when it would be lit. 

Gold Cloaks and Lannister guards were patrolling the streets. There were strict curfews in effect for the city’s safety, but judging by the glares and the murmurs that he received, they had no intention of thanking them. Some windows were already boarding up and on some of the rooftops he saw families were preparing themselves. 

_They see us as paper shields,_ Kevan looked up at one rooftop to see a girl no older than his own looking down at him. She had a small doll in one hand. It was worn and dirty, but she clung to it like it was the most precious thing in the city. 

He smiled up at her. He waved, and the girl shyly returned it. Myrcella’s red ribbon had flickered at the motion. _Thank the Seven she is safe from this._ He sighed. _Far too few are._ His mind going to that poor smallfolk girl they passed. 

_Janei,_ his own little girl, was safe at the Rock with his Dorna. His boys too were away from the city. Lancel had been the last to leave. His duties kept him from properly seeing his son off, but he knew Lancel was not happy by the decision. He was so determined to stay, to fight, arguing that he needed to fight for their Queen and for their family. Lancel had been _stuck_ in the city when the war broke out, so he missed the fighting that his brothers got to experience. 

_He whined as if he missed some great adventure and some great opportunity,_ Kevan sighed, He watched a pair of boys running down the street, laughing when they nearly bumped into a gold cloak, who cursed before waving his fist at their retreating forms. 

_Was I ever that young and arrogant?_ He remembered wetting his sword in the Stepstones, him and his brothers, determined to prove the Lannister lion was not meek. Only now looking back did he realize how lucky he was to survive those battles. _I was just as stubborn as Lancel is._ He felt a tired smile at his lips at how the Seven teased and tested him with his sons and how they reflected his own past back at him.

“PISS ON THE LANNISTERS!” A man shouted down from the top of a stairwell adjoined to what looked to be a brothel. 

“Leave him,” Kevan saw his men tense. “We do not need to beat drunkards to prove our strength.” He saw his guards did not look too pleased by the order, but they followed it. 

That just seemed to further embolden the man. “YOU LIONS HAVE BEEN FUCKING US FOR YEARS!” He was waving his jug of ale. Its contents sloshed more on the man’s already dirty shirt than in his mouth. Some curious onlookers were beginning to stop and turn in the direction of the drunk man who stood on the steps as if it was his stage. “AS WELL AS EACH OTHER!” He let out a loud guffaw that turned into an even louder belch.

“Ser?” One of the Lannister guards stopped and turned to him. “He besmirches the Queen’s name and your family’s reputation.” His hand was on the pommel of his sword. 

_He speaks truly,_ Kevan kept that awful reminder to himself. “You want to beat him?” He already knew the answer. “You want to kill this man?”

“Yes, ser,” The guard straightened up, looking as if it would be some great honor to gut a drunkard in a dank alley in King’s Landing.

“You kill that man,” Kevan pointed at the man who had decided to dance down the steps, “You only make the others stop and think about his words.” He shook his head. “The Iron Throne will not tremble to the drunken ramblings of a pitiful beggar.” 

“Very well, ser.”

They kept moving. 

_How many years ago was it?_ He tried to think when he arrived at this city’s gates with his brother and the might of the Westerlands at his back. _Then we came to take the city from the Mad King_ , he would not forget those days, _Now, we defend it for a Mad King._

* * *

His chambers in the Tower of the Hand were modest, but Kevan didn’t complain. He still had a bed, food, and a warm hearth every night. He knew once Renly’s army appeared on the outskirts, he’d be spending his days and nights on the walls of the city. 

He savored what peace he could find before the siege began. He had not even sat himself down when a knock came to his door. “Yes?” He hadn’t been expecting anyone at this hour. 

The door opened, it took all of Kevan’s effort to keep himself from scowling at the presence of his niece. “Cersei,” was all he gave her. She deserved no title nor his respect. 

“Uncle,” She stepped into his room without invitation. Her crimson dress swishing as she moved. Everything below her waist was all silk, but the sleeves of her dress were ornamented in metals. She was wearing a partial chest plate studded in gold and rubies with the Lannister Lion emblazoned on it. The plate only covered half of her chest and her abdomen. _Terribly impractical,_ he thought, _style over sense._ He found it a fitting way to describe her too. 

“Father believes Renly will come soon.”

“My brother is often right on such matters,” He warily watched his niece cross the room. She had beauty and grace, that fooled so many, none more than herself. 

“It must be difficult for you, Uncle,” Her tone almost sounded convincing in her sympathy. “To be always in my father’s shadow.”

“No, it isn’t,” Kevan recognized his role early and changed accordingly. _One can still grow in the shadows,_ He had blossomed under his brother, and he worked his hardest to continue to serve. 

She gave him a bland smile. “ _Little brothers_ have it so much harder,” She had moved herself over to where he kept his wine. She didn’t ask when she poured herself a glass nor did she offer him any. 

“If that is what you say,” He didn’t want wine and he didn’t want her here. Kevan was about to ask her to leave, but her next words stopped him. 

“That is the case with your sons, is it not?” Her eyes burned like the caches of wildfire they had prepared outside the city walls. “It was Willem who was captured?”

“He was,” Kevan said tightly, “He was returned.” He wouldn’t forget the Starks giving him back without asking for a ransom. 

“I’m glad,” She said in a tone that didn’t sound too particularly glad. “He saw battle. He thinks himself a man now, Martyn too?”

“They are in the West.”

“My eldest isn’t,” She was looking down at her already near empty wine glass, “My Joffrey is in this city.”

“Your son is _king,”_ Kevan followed the true Lion in the West, not the _lion_ masked as a stag on the Iron Throne. “His presence will boost the spirits of our soldiers.” It was a lie. 

Cersei scowled. “My son should not need to be paraded to get _his_ servants and soldiers to fight for him.”

“You’re right he shouldn’t be paraded in front of them,” Kevan saw the surprise flicker in her face, but it didn’t stay with his next words. “He should be fighting beside them.”

Her fingers tightened around the wine glass in such a grip he thought she may break it. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were blazing when she considered his suggestion. “You would like that?” She sneered, “My son risking his life while yours are safe in the West.”

“I wouldn’t consider the West too safe,” Kevan corrected. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they were out of danger because they weren’t in the city. He suspected and feared the Westerlands would turn into a battlefield soon enough. He only hoped he put his sons in a position to be safe for the coming storm that was about to hit the West. 

“They’re away from their king,” She pointed out. Her mouth then began to curve upwards into a smirk, “Well not all of them.” 

“What?” 

His confusion only made her smirk grow. Her beauty was marred by that arrogant look that settled over her face. “Lancel, brave Lancel could not be parted from _his king.”_ She clarified in a honeyed tone even though her words were sharp as barbs. “He has stayed to fight for him, for me, for us, for our family.” 

“What did you do?” 

She was still smirking. “I did nothing, your brave son volunteered to stay. He didn’t want to leave the battle. He wanted to fight.” Wine glossed her lips, “Lancel understands loyalty towards one’s family,” she put the wineglass down, “You could learn a lot from your son.” She dabbed at her mouth, red wine smears blotted on her napkin. 

His chest was pounding. “You-” His response, his rage, his reaction all of it was drowned out by the sudden sound of bells. Dozens of them belting throughout the city. It was a ring of thunder that brought them a simple message- _Renly had arrived._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the Lord of Bones drew the very short straw in this AU. The first part of this chapter was to show the dangerous divide between Domeric and the wildlings. Which could end up being a problem down the line. 
> 
> Sam's doomed night watch companions were a little nod/tribute to certain tropes. The first one is a nod to the great Guy in Galaxy Quest. (Guy is an established name in the ASOIAF universe) The second is an actual character who I strongly believe Martin wrote with the same tropes in mind.
> 
> Despite how this chapter ended, I don't believe we'll actually get to the battle until chapter 10 or 11. I can just safely say it won't be chapter 9.
> 
> If you liked the chapter then please review. It would mean a lot to me.
> 
> Thanks for all the awesome support you've given myself and this story.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	9. Nine

**Sam:**

His knees wobbled together, but his feet still carried him forward.

_ Are these my feet?  _ He didn’t want to go that way. Sam didn’t want to go anywhere near him. 

Someone was moving him. Someone was pushing him.  _ What else could it be? _

_ These are someone else’s feet.  _ But it was Sam, who was approaching the dying wildling. 

The wildling was oblivious to Sam’s discomfort and even his presence. He groaned and grunted, his feet were kicking out while his back was pressed against the stone wall. His hair was stringy and swishing across his face like a hastily pulled curtain. 

_ I’m watching someone die.  _ Sam’s stomach turned. 

The wildling’s mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. 

Sam took a slow step forward, “w-what?” He asked, trying not to stammer, “W-what is it?” 

The wildling’s lips continued to move in between sharp intakes of breath.

He crouched down. He ignored the feeling of his belly being squeezed by cold claws. He tried not to think about his shaking legs. “W-what are you trying to s-say?” 

The wildling’s face suddenly went slack. His eyes slowly moved to Sam’s face.  _ “Blue...Burn...Coming.” _

It felt as if someone poured cold water into his chest. 

_ “What are you doing?” _

“Master Sam?” 

“Y-yes?” Sam lurched up, finding himself in his bedroll by a warm fire. It was still dark but he saw the blots of red light beginning to seep into the morning sky. 

“Are you well?”

He rubbed his eyes, recognizing the voice. “Yes, I am,” Sam pushed himself up while staying in his bedroll. 

“Good,” Domeric Bolton moved to sit near him, “You sounded troubled." 

Sam could hear the Bolton men in the distance, talking and laughing as they went about packing up their camp. “I-I,” he didn’t know what to say while the memory that plagued his sleep replayed in his mind.  _ Burn...Coming...Blue... _ Those were the last confusing words the wildling muttered before Lord Domeric removed his head. “Bad dream,” He let out a weak laugh, that seemed to limp the short distance between them. 

He had only met Lord Domeric the day before and that had been between a bloody skirmish and a series of executions.  _ Grim and cold,  _ that was how Sam would describe him, and glancing at him in the firelight, he saw that the flayed man was just as frightening. “Did the wildlings say anything to you?” 

“Grumbling and cursing,” Domeric didn’t sound particularly interested. He reached into a bag to pull out some rations. He held out a piece of dried beef for Sam which he took with a nod. “If you’re asking did they try to repent or beg then no, they didn’t.” 

Sam took a bite of his beef. The taste was bearable, but it allowed him a reprieve from speaking. He chewed on the cold meat while he worried in his mind if he should say what he heard.  _ Will Lord Domeric listen or will he laugh?  _ He took another bite, but was no closer to deciding on his course. 

“Have you read  _ A Consideration of History?” _

Sam nodded since his mouth was still full. They had talked about some histories, but he still thought it strange to see. The squire said Lord Domeric liked history, but he didn’t expect this sort of unguarded interest. 

Domeric’s answering smile was nearly as baffling. “His writing on the  _ War across the Water _ was entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” Sam asked, “Why do you say that?” He was not sure that would be the word to use to describe such a history. And the tone in which Lord Domeric said it made Sam think that in  _ entertaining _ he meant it like one would describe a court fool’s performance as something silly. 

“It reads like it was written from a man who’s never stepped foot north of the Moat,” Domeric explained, “He writes about us, but he doesn’t understand us. It shows in his work, ” he finished his bread, “I found his commentary on my ancestor, Belthasar Bolton to be disappointing.” 

Sam could not recall the specifics. It had been some time since he’d read it. “What does your family say about the war?” 

“Many things,” His smile was sharp in the firelight. “Belthasar enjoyed writing nearly as much as flaying.”

He almost laughed thinking it was a jape, but then his eyes went to the flayed man on Domeric’s attire, remembering who he was speaking with.

“We’ll be riding soon,” Domeric stood from his spot, “You’ll ride with me,” He sounded genuinely pleased. “It’ll be nice to speak with someone who isn’t a maester about the histories.” 

Sam watched him leave. This was not how he expected his day to start. 

* * *

The Boltons were waiting for him in their solar. 

Lord Domeric was standing by the hearth and the first to notice him. He wore dark trousers and a dark tunic. There was red stitching in the shirt and Sam didn’t need a long look to recognize its resemblance to blood drops. He wore a brooch as pale as bone in the shape of a flayed man as a clasp for his crimson cloak. “Sam,” He inclined his head towards him, a polite smile on his lips. 

Sam returned the greeting. “I brought the tome you asked about,” He held it up. It was old and worn so he handled it carefully. 

His eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” His soft voice was filled with sincerity. 

“I’ve lost track of the amount of books you’ve discussed with my husband, Sam.”

“Lady Sansa,” He dipped his head to where she was sitting behind her desk.  _ She was pretty,  _ he hoped his thoughts weren’t betrayed with a blush or his stammering. He thought it impressive that she could be pretty even when she wore the Bolton colors or their infamous flayed man.  _ She makes it less terrifying.  _ Tonight, she was in a blue gown, but there were garnetts studded along the sleeves and in swirls in the front that made him think of whirlpools. 

He would not forget her kindness when he arrived into Winterfell’s great hall. He had stuttered through part of his introductions, painfully aware how pathetic he must have looked and sounded to the servants and guards of Winterfell.  _ They probably wondered how someone so fat and cowardly could become a member of the Night’s Watch.  _ The order was still held in high regard and respected in the north.  _ Not anymore,  _ he thought miserably,  _ not after seeing me.  _

There had been snickers and whispers, but they were short lived under Lady Sansa’s watchful eye. She had then proceeded to treat Sam with kindness and had given him an encouraging smile that made him think of Talla, the oldest of his three sisters. The only one of them, who knew the extent of Sam’s woes with their father. 

“You must forgive my wife,” Domeric said lightly. “She speaks of such things as if they’re dull, but the works of Maester Irwyn are anything but.”

“His writings on his brief voyage to Sothoryos are fascinating.” He could see Lord Domeric nodding out of the corner of his eye. Sam didn’t add that Irwyn’s story about his acolyte Malcolm and the  _ walking lizards _ made him lose a few nights worth of sleep. 

“Indeed,” Lady Sansa was amused, looking fondly towards her husband. “Is that who wrote this tome?”

“No, my lady,” Sam answered, “It’s from the Wall. It’s very old,” He put it down gently on a small table. “I believe it may be one of the oldest in the Watch’s library.” 

Domeric raised an eyebrow. “That is some boast.” 

“It is,” He hadn’t finished reading through it, but just from what he read he was so certain that he was right that he didn’t buckle under the scrutiny of his judgment. “It even makes a brief mention of the Night’s King.”  _ It wasn’t much,  _ and it was what he already knew,  _ but it was still interesting.  _

“Perhaps, Old Nan wrote this book,” Domeric joked, earning a soft chuckle from his wife before she shook her head. 

“Sam, please sit,” Sansa gestured to the table where a pitcher of wine and glasses were already placed.

“Thank you,” He smiled, but looked away to go to his seat. He saw that the Bolton flayed man adorned one of the walls while the Stark’s direwolf adorned another. The table was in between them making it seem the two were looking down at them. “You know the stories of the Night’s King?” He knew little about him. This Night’s King would be mentioned once or twice in some stories, but then dismissed even more by maesters who claim it’s more myth than history,  _ but that was in the south,  _ Sam reminded himself. 

He learned more while at the Wall, but he was eager to hear something different. _The more you read, the more you learn and the more you can understand,_ that’s what Sam thought. It was why he didn’t mind reading histories or books that covered the same years of wars or reigns or histories at the Wall, because he knew each one was different in its telling and he had to piece it all together. He found it a fun challenge. 

“I do,” She smiled, sitting down at the head of the table. “Old Nan used to tell us stories about him,” She said wistfully, “He was the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He fell in love with a woman and Old Nan says he gave her his soul. Thirteen years he ruled from the Nightfort, it took two kings to stop his dark reign.” 

“Aye,” Domeric was still standing, pouring their drinks, “Brandon the Breaker, the King of Winter and Joramun, The King-Beyond-the Wall,” He gave the first glass to his wife, “When it was over, foul things were discovered, bloody rituals and sacrifices to the Others.”

“That’s why there’s nothing on him. All records of him were destroyed. His name was forbidden,” Sam said, “and then forgotten.” He was thankful to have his glass of wine to allow him to take a sip. The taste was sweet,  _ Talla would like this, _ he was holding the glass,  _ Mother too.  _ He tried to soothe the ache of missing them with some wine and distraction. “I’ve read all sorts of speculation.”

“On who he was?” Domeric asked. 

Sam nodded, “Some claim he was an Umber or a Dustin or a Flint or a Norrey or a...” he listed them off, stopping suddenly when he got to the last name, the one many claimed he was... 

“A Bolton?” It was Sansa who saved him.

Domeric’s dark eyes were glittering. “He wasn’t a Bolton.”

“You sound so confident, husband,” Sansa teased, “Is there some secrets from the Dreadfort you wish to reveal?”

“Not yet,” He replied, with the slightest twist of his lips. “If he was a Bolton then why would King Brandon destroy the records?” He shook his head, “No, the Starks would want every house in the north to know what my ancestors did.”

“That’s true,” She agreed, “I remember once when Old Nan told me the story. I was with Jon. It was just the two of us. I didn’t like that, but he still let me hold his arm during the scary parts,” Her smile dipped, “When Old Nan got to the part of who the Night’s King was, she suggested his name was also Jon. That scared him,” her face softened, “But the next time we heard her tell it, it was with Robb so Old Nan said perhaps that was the name of the Night’s King,” She laughed, “I’m sure when she told it to my father and uncles, he had their names too.” 

Domeric chuckled, covering one of her hands with his. 

Sam looked away, his vows from the Night’s Watch coming to him. “Do you think it was a Stark?” He put his glass down, but didn’t look in their direction. He was facing the Bolton standard and felt himself being watched by the flayed man. 

“Why else would they destroy the records?” 

_ Why else,  _ Sam thought the heir to the Dreadfort made a good point.  _ Why would King Brandon have the records destroyed? Was it to protect his family’s name?  _ The Bolton flayed man was silent in its stare.  _ Or were they hiding something more?  _

“Stark or Bolton, it doesn’t matter, it’s in the past,” Sansa said, “it’s just a story.” 

“My wife speaks truly,” Domeric agreed. “Besides, that was not why we called you here.”

That didn’t surprise Sam, but their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of servants who brought them their supper. 

Sam looked down at his stew, the smell wafting under his nose, tickling and teasing. He didn’t start until after seeing the Lord and Lady tuck in. He dipped his spoon in and took his first bite.  _ Delightful and warm,  _ savoring it while he chewed. 

“I was wondering if we could talk about the castles on the Wall,” Domeric said, “the abandoned ones.” 

“Oh,” Sam was mindful of the stew still on his spoon. He had paused in his eating and now it was dangerously close to smearing on his chin. He slurped it up, needing the extra time to think.  _ I hope he doesn’t have a lot of questions about them,  _ he feared, _ I should’ve spoken more with the builders,  _ he tried to quell the panic that was swelling inside him.  _ I should’ve read more. _

“Could it be possible to unseal them?”

“Unseal them?” Sam’s spoon was in his stew. He stirred it, looking down to see flecks of peas and onions and cut up pieces of meat.  _ They must think I'm the Night Watch’s fool and not envoy.  _ It had been so easy for him to talk to them about what he knew, like histories and books, but now the nerves were beginning to seep through, splintering his earlier confidence.  _ I-I can’t shame the Watch. They’re counting on me.  _ He forced himself to look up.  _ They didn’t look annoyed or amused,  _ like Sam thought they would at his bumbings, _ Father would’ve, Ser Alliser too,  _ but they’re just waiting. 

“I don’t know, my lord. I’m a steward for the Watch not a builder,” Sam answered honestly, “But I can write to the Wall.”  _ If _ it was possible it would take time and men. He knew enough about the tunnels to know that most of them were sealed with frozen stone and rubble.  _ Lord Domeric has the men and we still have some time before Mance arrives. _

“Thank you, Sam,” Domeric looked pleased, not disappointed.

He nearly slumped in his seat in relief. “Why do you wish to unseal them?”

“It’s just a thought. Perhaps, one of the ones closer to Castle Black,” answered Domeric, “I thought it could be something to look into. It could give us a possible chance to surprise Mance or flank his host especially if they believe we’re restricted only to the tunnel at Castle Black.” He was breaking pieces off his bread, “If not, there are other ways of handling Mance and his wildlings.” 

He remembered how Domeric _ handled _ the wildlings he fought and captured. He had them all executed, Sam hadn’t watched. He had heard very little from his spot at the campfire away from the cabin, distracting himself by putting all of his focus on the books from the Watch he had borrowed. 

_ Coming...Burn…Blue... _

The dying words of that wildling sent a chill through him that the warm stew and bread couldn’t diminish. Sam thought about saying them aloud, but doubt made him hold his tongue. 

_ I need their help,  _ he reminded himself,  _ How can I get it if they think I'm mad?  _

* * *

**Theon:**

He groaned. 

It was cold. The touch on his cheek. He mumbled, feeling the fog of sleep beginning to lift.  _ It was wet too,  _ he realized, frowning, still trying to ignore it because he wanted to go back to sleep. He rolled onto his side, turning away. Hazy thoughts clouding his senses such as trying to think or focus on that cold and wet presence that woke him. __

His next few seconds went uninterrupted and he felt the slow crawl of sleep coming to retake him. The welcoming black that would ferry him to better places. Things began to crystallize before him.  _ Not things,  _ he saw better now,  _ them. They’re waiting for me.  _ He felt free on this sea, the tide bringing him closer to those who wanted and waited to see him. Their faces were still blurred, but he saw that one was in front of the others. Long and dark hair that swayed in the breeze.

He tried to squint to see who it was. Frustrated, that they were beyond his sight.  _ A little closer… _

_ TAP! _

Theon jolted, the scene before him fracturing like a breaking looking glass. His heart thumped hard into his chest, recoiling while half rising out of his bed. His vision blurred, his hands were still under his covers- “AAGH!”

Teeth, large teeth, he nearly fell off his bed. His mind reeling and his heart trembling in that second of fright as the line between sleep and awake still blurred and confusion clouded over him like a veil. It was the sound of laughter that punctured his jumbling thoughts and helped to stem the energy he found coursing through him at this unexpected and sudden arrival. 

He recognized the voice at once. He grumbled, but refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he looked at the intruder who had woken him. Nymeria came into sharper focus for his bleary eyes. The direwolf didn't look so terrifying despite her sharp teeth. Or her size, he was partly impressed she was able to slip through the flaps of his tent so easily to get to him. 

_ No,  _ to him,  _ Nymeria was more a comfort than concern.  _ Theon had never really found himself fearing this particular wolf.  _ She was the only one,  _ he realized. 

Grey Wind had frightened him during battle when he saw the wolf tear into horses and men as if they were made of parchment. The same for Summer, the direwolf had ripped the throat of a man who was paid to kill Bran. Shaggy Dog was as wild as Rickon so Theon always treaded lightly around that beast. The bastard’s wolf didn’t growl or snarl, but its red eyes were unsettling. Its quietness had surprised him once or twice, believing himself alone one second only to see Ghost there, silent and waiting. Even Lady, the most docile of the litter had put a fright in him during one supper at Riverrun.  _ It was only a jape,  _ he tried to calm the wolf, who's following snarl showed she wasn’t placated by that excuse. 

_ Only Nymeria, _ he mused, ignoring the laughter. He rubbed his eyes trying to banish any lingering traces of sleep.  _ Maybe, it was Asha,  _ he tried to recall the person from his dream.  _ I haven’t seen her in so many years.  _ She had dark hair, or so he thought, frowning. He tried to picture her, but the memories came to him as elusive as the dreams. 

The shifting of his camp bed pushed him out of his thoughts. He looked over his shoulder to see Nymeria’s large front paws were on it. The wolf’s nose sniffed the air and then she put her muzzle against his pillow, insistent and muffled in her smelling before she lifted her head and turned to regard him with golden eyes that seemed too alert for this early hour. 

“Morning,” He reached out unafraid of getting bit. The direwolf accepted his hand. He stroked her head only twice before withdrawing.  _ She wasn’t a hound, but a wolf.  _ Nymeria’s legs were sinking the camp bed due to her weight, but she didn’t seem to notice as she continued to fill the room with her sniffing. “It’s just me,” He wasn’t sure what the direwolf was doing, but he knew it wouldn’t be smart to try to push her off.  _ I’d rather have a broken bed than a mangled arm.  _

He was glad that he was alone this morning.  _ Never thought I’d think that,  _ amused by it, but there was truth to it. Theon could only imagine the fright Nymeria would give to one of his  _ guests _ if they were startled awake.  _ It’d be my last bit of company,  _ he suspected,  _ She’d tell the others don’t sleep with Theon, you’ll wake up to an awful large wolf.  _ Nymeria still paid him no attention as she tried to put her back paws onto the camp bed now. It protested at the added bulk, a straining sound followed from beneath them. Her large body bumping into him as she tried to fit onto it. 

Theon chuckled, “I’m getting off.” He slipped his legs out before they were crushed, once his feet touched the ground he pushed himself up and off the bed.  _ Would’ve been strange too,  _ thinking more about Nymeria intruding on him and a woman,  _ and awkward. _ He didn’t really like the idea or the feeling when it trickled into his thoughts so he pushed it away.  _ It would just be annoying,  _ he told himself. That was when he spotted the suspicious shadow outside his tent, who was both small and loud. “Arya.”

It quieted and stilled. A beat passed before her dark hair came into view and then the rest of her. She was wearing dirty trousers and a dark tunic which Theon suspected was just as dirty. She was smiling, unabashed at being caught. “Morning, Theon,” She chirped. 

“Morning,” He felt his lips twitch, but he tried to bury the growing mirth to try to look annoyed. 

She wasn’t fooled. Her grey eyes sparkled. 

“Is there a reason for this?” He yawned, before gesturing to the large direwolf sprawling off of his bed. 

Arya shrugged as if that was a suitable answer. 

He sighed.  _ I’m too tired for this.  _ “Can you and your wolf leave so I can change.” He was already dressed, but the last thing he needed was Snow finding out his sister came into Theon’s tent. That unappealing thought of being caught by the bastard prompted him to move his hands towards the flaps. He thought he saw her cheeks color but she turned her head so fast and soon all he saw was a shroud of dark brown hair. She whistled, calling to her wolf, Nymeria got off and the two left without another sound. 

_ Robb’s off fighting the Lannisters,  _ He looked at his camp bed to see it was still intact.  _ Bolton’s fighting the wildlings,  _ he sighed,  _ and I’m stuck with her.  _ But the sting of resentment wasn’t nearly as strong as he thought it should’ve been. 

* * *

_ I’m taking orders from a bastard.  _

Theon left Snow’s tent as quickly as he could.  _ The bastard might be a knight turned lord, but I’m the Heir to the Iron Islands.  _ His anger simmering in his belly. _ I should be giving the orders.  _

_ They weren’t his orders,  _ but the truth didn’t stop him from going any faster.  _ They were Lord Stark’s. _ Did that make it better or worse? Theon left the encampment not listening to the sentinel calling back to him. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to any more orders. He walked a beaten path from all the horses and men that had trodden on it before him. He then got off it and went a different way. He didn’t look back. 

_ They treat me like I’m a child,  _ Theon pushed his way through a meadow full of wildflowers. Dots of red, purple, orange, yellow, and white. There was a randomness to the colors that made him think of the seeds having scattered like raindrops long ago. They didn’t go past his chest, so he was at least able to see where he was going. The birds flew and trilled overhead, uncaring of his problems. 

_ No, not a child,  _ a hard voice that sounded like his father broke through,  _ but a prisoner.  _

He stopped so suddenly at the words he nearly tripped over his feet. His eyes went to a small cluster of red flowers that made him think of a wound,  _ a bleeding wound _ . Uncomfortable, he looked away, but he still saw the blood.  _ It’s your blood, boy. You’re a ward, a hostage,  _ his father’s voice was relentless like waves crashing onto the shore.  _ You’re their prisoner, Theon Greyjoy.  _

An icy finger went up his back.

_ I fought beside Robb at the Whispering Wood. I was there when we chased the lions away from Riverrun. _ In his absent thoughts he had plucked a flower with white petals.  _ I should be going west to fight with Robb, but they’re making me go north. _ His fingers closing into a fist. 

_ You’re one of us, you know.  _ Her voice was a strong gust of wind that blew away his father’s words.  _ You’re the sea wolf!  _ He smiled at the memory. In the distance on a rise he saw a tree, alone. He moved towards it. 

He knew it was possible he’d be going north, but he hoped it would be a mistake. That he’d be asked to go west. They’d see his importance and call for his help.  _ It wasn’t a mistake.  _ He dropped the flower. 

_ I can’t help anyone at Winterfell,  _ the frustration returned, his mind went back to that half forgotten dream from this morning.  _ Those people waiting for me,  _ the crowd of shadows,  _ my people.  _ That bolstered him.  _ They’re waiting for their heir to return.  _ The tree’s bright orange leaves were beginning to reach over him, but some sunlight dappled through within the cool shade. 

_ That’s where I should be going,  _ he ducked under one of the lower branches.  _ I should be rallying my father’s ships.  _ He settled himself against the thin tree’s body, but it was still large enough for him to comfortably lean back against.  _ No, they’re my ships.  _

_ I can help.  _ He would not beg the bastard.  _ Let me help.  _

_ You’ve been away too long, boy.  _ He could see his father’s sneer.  _ You’re too soft.  _

_ I’m your heir,  _ Theon wanted to spit back to his father’s shade.  _ And I won’t be some failed king.  _ He took small satisfaction at seeing his conjured father’s ire.  _ Someone who was crushed beneath the Baratheon boot.  _

“There you are.” 

His father’s image melted away like mist. He only saw an outline, but he knew this very familiar shadow. “Here I am.” 

Arya stepped into the light. “I was looking for you.” Her precious  _ Needle _ was hanging loosely at her side. To his surprise, her clothes looked even muddier than they were this morning when she had her wolf wake him. He hadn’t seen her since, but it appeared she had been busy. Nymeria slipped under the shade of the tree beside her, but after a quick glance around the wolf turned and left, disappearing into the meadow of wildflowers. 

“I wasn’t lost,” he replied, she looked different from where he sat,  _ taller?  _ He wasn’t certain _ , but it was a better look for her _ , he thought.  _ This wasn’t Arya Underfoot.  _

She had her hands on her hips. He saw that her hands were dirty and there were some smears on her arms and elbows which made him think she’d been practising sparring, “I didn’t say you were.” 

“How did you find me?” 

“I just did.”

Theon wanted to roll his eyes. “Well now that you found me you can go back.” 

“No,” Her eyes were bright and she was smiling. “It’s boring back there.” 

“You’re terribly stubborn.” 

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” 

“I know,” She grinned, “I was just practising my etiquette,” she then performed a terrible curtsey.

Theon snorted. “Won’t  _ Snow _ miss you?”

Her smile turned. She didn’t like even a hint of someone speaking poorly or mockingly of the Bastard. “He’s busy.” 

_ He’s busy,  _ Theon repeated.  _ Probably trying to pick some name, Snowstark, Seastark, who cares.  _ He kept his thoughts on him better concealed knowing her prickly insistence on defending him.  _ The Bastard has plans and gives orders, but not me.  _ He wanted to sigh and be left alone, but it was not to be. “Where’s Lyanna?” The youngest Mormont girl who when she was with Arya would just glare at Theon while looking like she swallowed a particularly sour lemon.  _ Maybe she can bother her.  _

“She’s busy.”

“Lucky her.”

She gracefully replied by sticking out her tongue. 

He chuckled. “A true maiden stands before me.”

“I heard you’re going to Winterfell.”

“I am.” He confirmed,  _ at Winterfell when its in the hands of Domeric and Sansa.  _ He didn’t look forward to it. “I’m not even allowed to fight the wildlings.” Lord Stark’s orders were clear.  _ I’m to stay at Winterfell,  _ he felt the bitter twisting in his stomach. __

“I’m not allowed to fight them either,” Arya pointed out in a tone that made her think her plight was just as bad and unfair as his. 

“That’s because you’re a-” Theon started, but Arya’s foot was faster, hitting him in the leg. He winced at the flash of pain. 

“I’m not a  _ lady _ .” 

“Oh?” He rubbed the sore spot from where she kicked him. “Then what are you?” 

“Mad.” 

He chuckled, “I know that feeling.” He was surprised by his own glibness. At how easily it slipped out while speaking to her. 

She frowned. “What do you mean?” 

He waved his hand like her concern was a nuisance that he could do without. He pushed himself up while avoiding her stubborn staring. He was thankful that the pain from her kick was gone. 

“Theon?” It was the tone and not his name that made him answer. 

“They don’t trust me.”

“I trust you.” 

The swiftness of her response meant just as much as the words themselves. “I know,” He then disrupted the odd beat of silence between them. He made a show of it by rolling his eyes, his smirk firmly on his lips, “Let’s get back to the camp,” He told her, “Or I’ll be returning to Winterfell in fetters.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this story uses the unreliable narrator trope so just because a character gives a suggestion, an answer, advice, definition, explanation, etc, it doesn’t mean its right or if it’ll be used. That’s also why Sam’s memory of those last words keeps getting mixed up. 
> 
> If you liked the chapter then please comment. Your support and kind words mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just one final reminder that you should not expect good writing or even decent fighting scenes. Before you begin to read you’ll need to lower whatever expectations you may have for this story and the events to come because of my quality as a writer in certain areas

**Kevan:**

He was on the wall when it happened. 

The thundering hooves of a ferocious charge as Renly’s men and knights rode down like a fierce storm through the gap. Their armor was glinting in the sun while the colorful banners sputtered in the wind displaying the might of the Reach and Stormlands. They bellowed battlecries as they rode, but all of it was silenced by the deafening **_WHOOSH._ **

Kevan looked away with the opening flash being near blinding. He could hear the curdling screams and the roaring flames. He didn’t know how many were out there, but it had to be thousands. He heard the whooping of his own men who had gathered to watch it. Seconds ago they looked on with trepidation at what approached them, but now they were openly cheering while watching men being burned alive. 

He turned to see a raging river of green flames snake its way through Renly’s forces, slicing through its ranks while searing flesh, leaving behind a swath of smoldering destruction. Even at this distance he could feel the sudden swell of heat. _This was not all of them,_ he knew, _the tip of the spear,_ he would guess. _Renly’s vanguard, perhaps?_ He didn’t know just like he didn’t know which lords and knights were lost in that sudden burst of wildfire. 

The screams of the men who were not given the mercy of a quick immolation were terrible to hear. They felt like daggers piercing through his flesh to prick at his very bones. The men were crying out in pain, screaming and pleading for mercy or help. As awful as the sound of burning men were, it was a terrible anguish to hear the horses whinnying with such frantic torment as they burned, wounded and terrified. It was harrowing in the painful noises so many of the horses made. It was a dreadful chorus of agonizing sounds, mixture of man and animal, flesh burning, pitiful screams and unholy whines. 

Kevan Lannister shuddered. The men on the wall cheered while they burned. 

He didn’t join in. He didn’t have it in him. “Settle down,” He told them, quieting their celebrations in his clipped tone, “Prepare yourself because they’ll be more.” He looked out at the carnage and the green flames. _They’ll want death for this._ He knew from those on Renly’s side who just watched their brothers and fathers and sons ride into that. _Death begets more death._

It was all different now. He could not see battle in the way he saw it when he was younger. These days, these weeks all in preparations and despite his worries and the uncertainty, he did what he was told. He thought the nerves would settle. The wait for the fight could be worse then the fight itself when your belly was filled with cold dread.

_It’s not the same,_ the cries hadn’t quieted, groans of agony lingered in the air while the uncontrollable wildfire went on consuming all in its wake. The youthful confidence that carried him through the war of the Ninepenny Kings and the Reyne Rebellion melted away to fatherly worry. It no longer mattered if he lived or died, it was the thought of what he could lose but still survive that was too terrible to ignore. 

_Lancel,_ His son’s name came to him when a distant call cried up. _He’s in the Red Keep. He’s safe there._ The words seemed to blow away like ashes in the wind unable to stick to his heart. _There is no safe._

He suddenly felt weary. Kevan kept his focus on his men who were being put in their paces by a Lannister knight, but even now through the thick smoke and glowing fire that Renly’s forces were preparing their next strike. “Ser Kevan.”

He turned to the runner whose face was already flush. “Yes?”

“From the King’s Gate, ser,” the messenger relayed, “Renly’s men were spotted coming out of the Kingswood by the hundreds,” He said over the muttering voices of the men. 

Kevan silenced his men with a look. “We’ll repel them.” They were between the Lion Gate and the Gate of the Gods. He imagined another runner had already been sent to the closer Lion Gate. He withdrew his sword, “Come men, we have a city to defend!” 

* * *

The enemy was already swelling up from their ladders when they arrived. 

Kevan urged his men forward hoping it was the thrill of battle and not the shiver of fear that gripped their hearts. They answered his commands with a roar and charged their enemy. “Bring down the ladders!” He cried over the din of battle. It was distracting to hear so many different harrowing sounds including the loud clatter of steel and the blood gurgling cries of the wounded and dying. He glanced to see two others were with him while a mixture of gold cloaks and Lannister soldiers did their best to contain those who had already climbed up. 

One of his men moved too closely to the ladder without checking so he never saw the axe that cleaved through his head, puncturing the skull like a crushed grapefruit. The dead man toppled over the wall and out of sight. Before the killer could advance up the rungs, Kevan plunged his sword through the man’s throat. There was a spray of red. He lost his balance, falling down the ladder like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut, knocking down two others below him. 

He saw some of the gold cloaks pouring hot tar onto another ladder sending all those who had been climbing it spiraling towards the ground, burning and screaming. He oversaw the removal of another ladder. His heart was pounding hard into his chest. Battle created an overwhelming feeling that could burn through your blood.

“Ser Kevan! It’s the Lion Gate,” A haggard man in Lannister red was near panting, “its been breached!” 

Fear spiked in his chest, pushing the guard out of his way so he could look in that direction. There not more than ten meters away was Renly’s banner, waving in the breeze, a jeering taunt. _Impossible!_   
He couldn’t believe it. They had the men with plenty of gold cloaks to watch and defend it. 

“The doors,” the messenger was saying, “They were opened!” 

_Betrayal,_ cold claws raked across his heart at this treachery. He tried to push it down while this new terrible truth was threatening to crush him. They were about to be surrounded on both sides by Renly’s men, squeezed in a bloody grip. He made the only choice he thought he could make. 

“Retreat,” he said it so softly, he wasn’t sure the word even slipped out of his mouth. He felt numb and his fingers were trembling against his sword’s hilt, “RETREAT!” He said it again. This gate won’t hold now that the closest one has fallen. They had to retreat and try to rally elsewhere. That’s what he told himself. _Tywin would understand._ The mention of his brother made him wonder if he was still alive in all this bloody bedlam. His men followed him while the enemy were swarming up their ladders like ants out of an anthill. 

He could see the Red Keep was looming in the distance. He thought of Lancel and prayed for him.

* * *

It was worse than he feared. 

With the gold cloaks unexpected betrayal and now the surge of Renly’s soldiers it became terribly difficult to navigate through King’s Landing. They had to abandon the walls and the gates, fleeing deeper into the city to try to find somewhere to hold up that couldn’t be enveloped by their enemies so easily. The streets in the city were twisted and narrow. He didn’t even have a dozen men with him.

A rush of men-at-arms and knights bearing the red apple of House Fossoway came up from one of the alleys. It was fight or die. He was proud at how they fought back, pushing them away. _Like lions,_ he thought as the wall of red held its ground. One of the remaining men-at-arms charged him and instincts guided Kevan’s sword to deflect the strike before his sword punctured through the flimsy armor. 

It was when the haze of battle lifted did Kevan see that it was a boy looking back at him. His eyes glistening and lips trembling. The boy fell to the ground with a whimper. Kevan felt himself rooted where he stood. _No older than Willem,_ was the thought that passed over him when the boy finally stilled at his feet. His belly was painfully tight as if being squeezed by pincers. _Willem,_ he thought again, but this time the boy had Willem’s face. His stomach rumbled violently, but despite its burning protesting, he didn’t retch. 

He brought two fingers to his face to try to swipe away some of the sweat. It was in that motion that he saw a flicker of red flash before him- _Myrcella’s favor_. It was still tied to his wrist, dirty and torn, but it couldn’t mar the princess’s embroidery. The golden lion still looked proud against the red and he brought a finger to tuck it back away but not before taking another second to admire it. 

He dispelled a breath, gathering his wits after those few heartbeats of silence and sickness. He looked to see two of his men lay dead, and another three were missing. _Fled,_ it didn’t need to be said. Despite the initial anger that churned in his chest, he found it dispersed by the direness of their fleeting endeavor. 

_Young and doomed,_ he survived his battles. He was able to marry and start a family, raise his children and watch them grow. He took in the few survivors who remained with him, all of whom dirtied, bloodied, sweaty, injured, and the oldest couldn’t be more than ten and eight. _They’ll experience none of it._

He heard approaching footsteps. “Together men,” He urged the survivors while watching as two of the three alleys that surrounded them at this intersection were being filled by enemy forces. He recognized the liveries of the Reach Houses Ambrose, Oakheart, and Beesbury. Their faces were concealed, but not all by steel some wore dark visages that could only be brought down during battle when the blood was up. _Men become beasts._

They didn’t stop. They didn’t wait. They just charged. 

He couldn’t even parry the first strike when he felt the burst of pain in his leg, a lance had pierced him from behind. His knee crumpled beneath him. He didn’t need to see it to know it was a bloody ruin. He gritted his teeth at the pain that seared from the wound. He dropped his sword to catch himself from falling. Cries and thuds surrounded him and he knew it was of his remaining men. His heartbeat seemed so loud. It pounded again and again, thundering beneath his chest. 

“Nice armor,” Someone to his left said. 

“Back off,” A warning came from behind him. 

_My killer,_ he thought numbly. He felt a hand against the back of his neck, before the harsh push that sent his head cracking against stone. It was a muffled grunt followed by pain, feeling as if someone took a hammer and hit the side of his face. It was agony. He was dizzy, pressed against the stone, he saw little, except for darkness. A copper taste filled his mouth and he tried his best to spit out the blood and what he was certain were parts of his teeth. He then felt hands grab him and push him, pinning him to the ground. He let out a weak groan, but they didn’t seem to have heard him.

“Who ya reckon he is?” 

“Who cares.”

“Could be rich.”

“Could be,” It was more than a few voices, but between the pain and dizziness he couldn’t tell them apart.

A foot nudged him, “ya practically broke his skull,” a guffaw followed, “I ain’t carrying some walking corpse because he might be a Lannister.”

“We don’t need all of him. We can just bring back his head.” There was jeering and laughter. 

“They deserve it after the wildfire,” Someone spat, “I lost my brother to those fucking flames.” The voice darkened and a footstep moved closer to him. “I’m killing him.” No one argued. 

He was expecting the killing stroke, but instead he felt someone wrench his arm upwards in a painful tug, “plenty of value here.” They took the ring along with his finger. 

Then there were more greedy fingers grasping at him, peeling away his armor the best they could. They were stripping him of all the wealth he carried. He didn’t budge. He couldn’t budge. He was wheezing, like a dying fish cruelly plucked from the water. His strength was leaving him, draining away, as he lay in a growing pool of his own blood. 

The ground was cold against his cheek, but he could feel the warmth of the sun beating at the back of his neck. It was almost soothing as was the gentle breeze that followed tickling against his exposed skin.

A shadow stepped over him when they finished, leaving him nearly naked. He wouldn’t try to get a look at his killer. Kevan thought about his family, and it was their precious faces that he saw when he heard the blade come down. 

* * *

**Cersei:**

_Fools, fools, they’re all a pack of fools!_

She had tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen. _The gods mock me,_ she thought, such a curse to be smart, but never heard. With Robert gone, and Joffrey still too young, it should’ve fallen to her. It didn’t. _They stole what should’ve been mine and then silenced me too._

 _Look at what their folly brought us._ When she heard their gates had been open she knew who had betrayed them. _Valonqar_ , the word sent a shiver through her despite her attempts to suppress it. She had thought for so long that it would be Tyrion, the one who’d betray her and then kill her. _He was a monster,_ she thought it all so obvious, but these past few weeks she began to realize it was someone else. _Uncle Kevan,_ it made the only sense. The little brother to her father, who was the greatest of all the lions. _And I’m the most like him._ What else could explain this disaster? _Nothing._

She had already seen Joffrey off. _He’ll avenge me._ She knew it, he was hers to use. The eldest and greatest of her children. Invested in power that was unfairly denied her, but he’d use it to make them all pay. _He’ll do it for me._ She was certain of it. _A Lannister pays their debts._ Father had against those traitorous bannermen and Joffrey would too against these usurpers. 

Her footsteps were loud in the empty Great Hall. She had to escape the other ladies, who bleated like sheep. She needed silence. Wine could only do so much. She would not be one of them, turning into a weeping, babbling mess. Nor would she allow herself to be led into some gilded cage to be paraded for all to see. 

_I’ll not be denied it now._ She paused in its shadow. _It’s waiting for me._ To think for so many years the fat oaf was allowed to disgrace this seat, but not her. No, never her. _Let them now come into this room and be forced to look up at me._ The conjured image excited her. _A lasting impression they’ll never forget, a Queen of such beauty and splendor._ She eagerly began to climb its steps. 

_The beautiful and brave lioness who refused to bow to a usurper._ Her fingers were holding tightly to a small vial. _Soon,_ she told herself. _If only they had listened to me!_ It was their fault. _I’m to be dragged down with them._ Her angry thoughts stilled when she climbed the last of the steps and took her seat atop the Iron Throne. In the vast silence of the Great Hall, she reigned like the Queen she should’ve been. 

She rested her arms atop the seat, but a sudden prick made her wince and draw her arm back. She looked down to see her sleeve had been ripped, drops of red were spilling from a small cut. Cersei pressed her hand against it before it could dribble down to further mar her skin. _A scratch,_ she had been distracted. It was careless, but hardly her fault. _So many problems weighing me down I can’t do everything!_

Cersei looked to see the crimson streak against her palm from the bleeding. She then turned to examine the wound, satisfied that it stopped, she put her blood stained hand carefully back to where it was resting. She adjusted herself atop the Iron Throne. It was difficult to find the right spot for her. She wasn’t like Robert, who was fat and drunk and didn’t care about the seat, too into his cups to feel any pain that the Iron Throne should’ve caused him. Another struggle she was forced to handle, but eventually she succeeded. Perched carefully atop it, she was sure she would look magnificent, a marvel to any who saw her. Now, she just had to wait. 

_They’ll come. He’ll come._

* * *

_Finally,_ she thought when she heard the sound of armored footfalls. His armor was dirty and marred, his hair disheveled. _He chose to represent our family in our last battle together._

He didn’t wait to be within sight of the throne before speaking. “The city is lost.”

“Joffrey will avenge us,” She knew he would and the thought of his future victories made her smirk. _I put him on the path to save our family, to give him those victories._

“So he’s gone?”

She could not see her brother’s face at his question in the dimly lit hall. “Yes,” She chose not to gloat at how she had made the plans and contingencies to save their family and no one else. 

“We need to leave,” He was holding his helmet under his arm, “Father is dead.” His fingers tapping at the metal impatiently, “We can still escape the Red Keep, but Renly’s army will soon be besieging it.”

She wouldn’t let father’s death show in her expression. She couldn’t. “We have men to defend it,” She didn’t like the look he made at her observation. She may not have been taught to use a sword, but she understood more than her brother would give her, more than any in her family would give her. 

“I wouldn’t trust their loyalty.”

“So you’d have us flee like thieves in the night?” Cersei demanded, _coward,_ she wanted to sneer down at him. 

“I’d have us live,” He corrected her, taking a few steps closer to stand on the dais of the Iron Throne. “We can finally be together.”

Cersei would rather die a Queen then live like some poor maid in the Free Cities, skulking in the dark and in the dirt. It was unworthy of her. _If only I was the heir and him the broodmare, how much greater our family would’ve been for it._ “We can,” She agreed with him, hiding her lie behind one of her sweet smiles that made him so easy to control. 

It worked. There was relief in his green eyes. He started to climb the steps towards her. 

_He was smiling like a fool,_ she didn’t let her intentions be known, standing up from the Iron Throne. _My time was too short,_ she despised the unfairness of it. _This was it,_ she met him down the steps, embracing him. He was surprised, but soon his arms greedily wrapped around hers, and she could feel the kisses he pressed into her neck. She let out a happy moan to know his attention was appreciative. 

Cersei wouldn’t let this ecstasy cloud her mind. Carefully, she slipped the dagger from his sheath, “Together,” she whispered, plunging the dagger deep into his side. 

He jerked backwards with a surprised shout. His movement pulled and twisted her forward making her lose her balance. Helplessly flailing as she spiraled downwards, hitting the first step on her way down. It was a sharp jab of pain to her side. She let out a noise, and fell down another. This time it was a pang in her thigh. The next bounce made her vision a dizzying blur as she hit the side of her head, a grunt followed the pain. 

One word rattled in her mind- _valonqar_. Each fall was a hit that made her feel like she was being stabbed by a searing blade. She was coughing and grunting, unable to stop herself. Tumbling down the last steps, she blearily looked to see the distance between where she rolled off and the floor that was rushing to meet her. 

The last thing she heard was a loud _crack_ and then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things are likely wrong with this chapter so please no need to list them. I’m aware of how poorly this chapter was put together. 
> 
> Next chapter will cover the aftermath so we’ll get a better idea of a few things since its a bit murky with this chapter being solely from the Lannisters' perspective. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire
> 
> P.S: I’m sad no one picked out the little Jurassic Park easter egg from the last chapter.


End file.
